



PRACTICABLE 


PHOTOPLAY CONSTRUCTION 

“The Writers’ Gateway to Success” 


By 

Gordon Eduard Heith 


Los Angeles 
1919 





MANY a useful article comes done up in a small package—Many 
a wonderful figure is clothed in poor garments. Believing that you 
would appreciate the time and labor expended in writing this book, 
and knowing that a binding adds only to the appearance and no.t 
to the actual richness or worth of that which it surround's, I have 
endeavored to present this little book to you neatly, but not ex¬ 
pensively, bound. It is my earnest wish that you realize as much 
enjoyment in the reading as I did in the writing, and that it fulfills 
both its purpose and your expectations. 


THE AUTHOR. 


Copyright 1919 

* ’. tby 


Gordtja ‘Eduard Heith 


©clast-mis 



: EB 21 1919 


Foreword 


IT was not the intention of the author, when writing this book to 
go into lengthy detail when a few words would suffice to give any 
reader of average intelligence a clear and comprehensive knowledge 
of all the essentials to photoplay writing. Nor was the book in¬ 
tended for a text book. You will note that it is written in a 
“conversational” style, and that the author has suggested your doing 
thus and so rather than laid down rules. 

FEW indeed know, or try to learn, anything about the requirements 
of the various studios producing motion pictures, or even know the 
first principles of photoplay writing. The man or woman who takes 
the pains to learn something of market conditions in this field, and 
who gives a few moments a day to studying the science of photoplay 
construction, will have a very good chance of disposing of. manu¬ 
scripts. Naturally, like everything else worth while, some work is 
required on the part of the aspiring playwright. But what success is 
worth the name that necessitates no effort? 

THE demands of the producer are far different today than they - 
were yesterday. Hodgepodge writings are no longer considered,, 
and the wonderful actors and actresses before the screen demand 
the best. Fair prices are paid for plays possessing merit, and the 
studios are always ready to give careful attention to any manu¬ 
script presented in a business-like way, and that shows thought 
and study on the part of the author. 

HAVING read this book and digested its contents, you should have 
a firm, grasp upon all the essentials necessary to successful writing,, 
and, with a due expenditure of effort and a cheerful determina¬ 
tion to win out, become a successful writer of photoplays. 

A thorough knowledge of the Dramatic Situations will open up to' 
you a wealth of photoplay material you probably never have known 
of, or how to use. There is nothing difficult about photoplay writ¬ 
ing, having acquired a fair knowledge of the elements that go to 
the making of an acceptable play. It is the “getting” and proper 
handling of ideas that are worth while that is difficult. And so I 
say that the reading of any book or volume of books,—will never 
make you a writer. But the study of this book and common-sense- 
application of the principles given will carry you a long way in the; 
right direction. 


DO not waste your time writing plays that, even to your mind, 
possess little or no merit,—that do not contain an “idea" and a 
“punch.” Better write one play every six months that IS a play, 
than one a day that is only a makebelieve. For the scenario editor 
is a knowing chap as a rule, and is trained to winnow the chaff 
from the grain. No amount of pretty language will impress him 
for a single moment. What he wants is the meat of the story,— 
not the garnishings. So endeavour to put into every photoplay 
you write the very best there is in you. For the selling of photo¬ 
plays is not like the selling of merchandise: You cannot have a 
bargain sale. A play worth buying is worth real money to any 
studio. They do not want cheap plays because they cost less. The 
bigger the play and the more they pay for it. the better they like it. 
AND do not despair because you see upon the screen many plays 
taken from well known novels old and new. Consider the number 
of photoplays produced each year, the limitations of the “first-sellers 
novel field.” and you will realize that the producer must have ori¬ 
ginal stories or close up shop. 

TRUSTING that this book will prove all you expected,—and 
more,—and wishing you every success in your writing, I remain. 

Respectfully Yours, 

G. E. HEITH. 


4 


The Dramatic Situation 

THE following' list of Dramatic Situations is not intended to be 
used, as a mechanical machine to replace the work of the brain. It 
is simply an aid,—something to refer to and something to stimulate 
your imagination when your brain becomes fagged. Use the list 
sensibly and you will find it of the greatest value to you in your 
writing. 

THERE is just one thing to bear in mind when using the Situa¬ 
tions : Instead of thinking up a beginning for some story and then 
developing it exactly as the story would unfold in book form, start 
with the situation and work backward and forward. This will be a 
hardship at first, but you will soon become accustomed to it and, 
where you could think up only one story before you will find your¬ 
self unable to write down fast enough all the plots and suggestions 
for plots that occur to you. 

I am going to give you the full list of situations first, then show 
you an example of the proper way to use the list and to work with 
the situations. I am giving you only one example, as more would 
probably be confusing. In later chapters you will be shown how to 
develop the full plot and story. Know what you read as you go 
along. Do not skip, thinking something unimportant. I have in¬ 
cluded nothing in this book that I believed to be unimportant,— noth¬ 
ing that I did not consider necessary to the beginner. And, at the 
same time, I have omitted nothing I did consider necessary. I have 
not exhausted the minor situations into which the major situations 
might be divided. It is possible for you to add several, no doubt, 
to each. But you will find each situation and each subdivision 
susceptible to so very many different variations of plot and treat¬ 
ment that an average lifetime is insufficient to completely use up 
the list as here given. 

EACH major situation is numbered. It is really the situation, and 
the sub-divisions only suggestions for using the main situation. 

1. In which an Abduction occurs. 


Subdivisions: 

In which an unwilling person is abducted. 

In which a willing person is abducted. 

(a) without slaying of abductor. 

(b) with slaying of abductor. 

In which a captive friend is rescued. 

In which a captive child is rescued. 

In which a soul, captive to error, is rescued. 


5 


I 


2. In which an Adultery is committed. 

In which a mistress is betrayed 
for a younger woman, 
for a young wife, 
for innocent girl. 

In which a wife is betrayed 

for slave loving in return, 
for slave not loving in return, 
out of debauchery or lust only, 
for another married woman 

(a) a friend to the wife, 

(b) a stranger to the wife. * 

In which a double adultery is committed 

with intention of bigamy, 
for woman not loving in return. 

In which the wife is envied by girl loving husband. 

In which there is rivalry between a lawful but anticipathetic wife 
and a congenial mistress. 

Between a generous wife and impassioned girl. 

In which an antagonistic husband is sacrificed for a congenial 
lover. 

In which a husband, believed to be lost, is forgotten for a rival. 

In which a commonplace husband is sacrificed for a lover. 

In which a good husband is sacrificed for an inferior rival, 

(a) a grotesque rival, 

(b) an odious rival, 

(c) a common rival by perverse wife, 
for useful rival. 

In which a deceived husband or wife exacts vengeance. 

In which jealousy is subordinated to a Cause. 

In which a husband is persecuted by a rejected rival. 

3. In which one is Ambitious. 

In which ambition is watched and guarded against, or hindered 
by friends, 
by partisans, 
by kindred, 
by lover or. sweetheart, 
by brother or sister, 
by person under obligations, 
by jealous rival, 

In which ambition is of rebellious nature, 
against State, 
against individual, 
against religion or Diety. 

In which crimes are committed because of ambition 
that is covetous, 

that is in part pure or justified, 

that is forced upon one by circumstances. 

In which ambition is parricidal in nature. 

4. In which Crime is pursued by vengeance. 

In which a slain parent or ancestor is avenged, 

In which a slain child or descendant is avenged, 

In which a child, dishonoured, is avenged. 

In which a slain husband or wife is avenged, 

In which vengeance is taken for dishonour or attempted dis¬ 
honour of wife. 


6 


In which vengeance is taken for mistress slain, 
for friend slain, 
for sister seduced. 

In which vengeance is taken by one State on another State for 
injury or spoliation, 

during a war between States, 

during absence of fighting force of one of the States. 

In which revenge is taken for an attempted slaying, 
for a false accusation, 
for a violation, 
for having been robbed 

(a) of something of financial value, 

(b) of something other than financial value. 

In which vengeance is enacted upon a whole tribe 

or sex, or religious body, or political 
body, for deception by one. 

In which vengeance is taken by professional pursuit of criminals 
and wrongdoers. 


5. Ill which a Crime of Love is committed. 

In which a mother loves her son, 

In which father loves his daughter, 

In which son loves his mother, 

In which daughter loves her father, 

In which a woman is enamoured of her stepson. 

In which both are enamoured of each other. 

In which woman is mistress to both father and son, 
both knowing of the situation, 
one knowing of the situation, 
neither knowing of the situation. 

In which man becomes lover to sister-in-law, 
to mother-in-law. 

In which brother and sister become enamoured of each other, 
or one for other. 

In which a man or woman becomes enamoured of 
another of same sex, 

for animal of lower order, as dog, sheep, bull. 


6. In which a Conflict with a God takes place. 

In which there is struggle against a Deity, 

In which Deity is represented by religious body, 

In which contempt for God is punished, 

In which pride before God. is punished, 

In which there is presumptuous rivalry with a God. 
In which there in imprudent rivalry with a God. 


7. In which there is a Deliverance. 

In which the rescuer appears to the condemned, 

In which a parent is replaced upon throne by children, by friends, 
by supporters. 

In which a person is rescued by friends, 

by strangers grateful for hospitality, 
grateful for other reasons. 

In which person is rescued by enemy. 


7 


8. In which there is a Disaster. 

In which a defeat is suffered by an army, 

In which a fatherland is destroyed or pillaged. 

In which humanity is overthrown. 

In which a natural catastrophe takes place, 

In which a human power is overthrown, — as a king. 

In which a religion is overthrown or cast out. 

In which ingratitude plays a part, 

In which unjust punisfiment plays a part, 

In which enmity, just or unjust, plays a part, 

In which a person is outraged, 

In which a person is abandoned by loved one, 

In which children are lost to parents, or parents lost to children. 


9. In which a Daring Enterprise is undertaken or consumated. 

In which preparation is made for war, 
for exploration, 
for dangerous feat, 
for combat, 

In which there is attempted 

the carrying off of desired person or object, 
an adventurous expedition or undertaking 
to rescue or obtain a loved one, 
a stranger, 
a treasure. 


10. In which the Dishonor of a loved one is Discovered. 

In which a mother’s shame is discovered, 
a fathers shame, 
a sister’s shame, 
a son or daughter’s shame. 

In which a shame or dishonor is discovered in 
family of fiance, 
fiance herself, or himself, 
wife previous to marriage, 
wife having committed faidt since marriage, 
wife formerly a prostitute, 
lover, mistress. 

In which mistress, formerly prostitute but having 
left life, returns to it. 

In which lover or mistress is discovered to be or 
have been a bad character, 
wife or husband the same, 

In which it is discovered one’s son, believed to be guilty, must be 
punished under 
Laws made by own father. 

Laws made by others, 

In which a son or daughter must punish parent 
believed guilty because of 
a vow made, 
a religious belief, 

a fanatical love for country or a Deity. 

In which a child must punish one 

parent to avenge wrong upon the other. 

In which brother punishes brother, or sister, sister. 

In which brother or sister punishes own brother 
or sister where opposite sex occurs. 


8 


11. Ill which there is an Enigma. 

In which fin unknown person must be found on pain 
of death to searcher or searchers. 

In which a riddle is to be solved under same threat- 
In which a riddle is proposed by a coveted woman, 
In which a temptation is offered with object of 
discovering an unknown’s name, 
discovering unknown’s sex, 
discovering unknown’s object or mission. 

In which tests are made to discover unknown’s 
mental condition, 
mental attitude, 

religious or political beliefs, etc. 


12. In which there is Enmity between Kinsmen. 

In which brothers hate, 

In which one brother hates several, 

Same of sisters. 

Reciprocal hatred under above circumstances. 

In which hatred exists between kinsmen for self interest. 

In which hatred so exists because of another, 
not loved or desired. 

In which injured pride or some other such cause play a part. 

In which father hates son, or son father, or both hate. 

Same of daughter and father or mother, grandfather or grandson 
or kinsman. 

In which father-in-law or mother-in-law hates 
son-in-law or daughter-in-law, 
parents of son-in-law or daughter. 

In which infanticide plays a part- 


13. In which one makes Erroneous judgment. 

In which there is false suspicion where faith is necessary. 

In which there is false suspicion 
not without reason 
where mistress is concerned, 
where loved one is concerned, 
where misunderstood attitude occurs, 
where indifference occurs. 

In which one draws suspicion upon ones-self 
in behalf of friend, 
in behalf of creditor, 
in behalf of innocent. 

In which suspicion falls upon innocent 

without guilty intent of accused or 
suspected, 

when innocent had guilty intent since 
given up 

In which one permits suspicion to fall upon 
the innocent, 

on an enemy either innocent or guilty, 

In which an error is provoked by enemy, 
by guilty party, 
against victim by own brother 
against victim whom has plotted against 
because of refusal to assist in erirne, 


9 


In which suspicion is thrown upon innocent 
by jealous wife or mistress, 
for refusal to betray, or longer 
betray a lover or husband, 

In which judicial error is made and innocent 
struggles to prove innocence. 


14. In which an Enemy is loved. 

In which the one loved is hated by kinsmen of lover, 
pursued by brothers of lover. 

In which lover is hated by family of beloved 
In which lover is son of man so hated, 

In which beloved is of party enemies of party of lover 
In which lover is slayer of father or blood relative 
of beloved. 

In which lover is, unknowingly, slayer of husband or 
kinsman of beloved who swears vengeance 
In which husband has slain lover of beloved wife who, 
ignorant of identity of slayer, swears 
vengeance. 

In which the beloved is daughter of slayer of lover’s 
father or blood relative. 

15. In which one Falls Prey to misfortune or cruelty. 

In which innocent are made victims of intrigue 
In which innocent are despoiled by those who 
should protect, 

In which the powerful are deposed and made 
wretched, 

In which a friend (benefactor) or intimate is forgotten, 
In which an unfortunate is robbed of faith or 
hope. 

In which a person suffers through 

known persecution otf loved ones, 
unknown persecution of loved ones, 
persecution of strangers or supposed 
friends. 

In which any misery or suffering is 
caused either intentionally or 
unintentionally to fall upon innocent. 

16. In which a Fatal Imprudence is committed. 

In which imprudence causes one’s own misfortune, 
one's own dishonour, 

In which imprudence or curiosity causes loss 
to loved one. 

death or misfortune to anyone,— 
lover, relative, friend, stranger. 

In which credulity causes kinsman’s death, etc. 

17. In which an Involuntary Crime of love takes place. 

In which one unknowingly marries mother, 
sister, brother, father, daughter, son. 

In which one unknowingly has sister for mistress 
Same with crime planned by another knowingly. 

In which one nearly takes sister as mistress. 

In which one unknowingly violates daughter, 
sister, etc. 


10 


In which one unknowingly commits adultery, 
In which the adultery is committed knowingly 
but the crime is unknowingly against 
a friend's wife, or own sister, etc. 


18. In which one suffers Loss of Loved ones. 

In which one is powerless to prevent murder 
of kinsman,—seeing deed committed, 
not seeing deed committed, 

In which one brings misfortune upon one's 
family through professional ethics 
or any other reason and looses 
their regard or affection. 

In which one learns of death of friend, 

kinsman, allyj daughter, son, parent. 

In which one relapses into primitive 

baseness upon receipt of advice of loss of dear 
one. 

In which one predicts or divines death of 
loved one. 

19. In which a Murderous Adultery is committed. 

In which a husband is slain for or by a 
paramour. 

In -which a relative is sacrificed for or 
by a paramour, 

In which either is slain for any reason 
affecting a sweetheart or mistress. 

In which one slays wife or paramour in 
selfish interests, 

in interests of another woman, or due 
to threats made, or temptations offered. 

20. In which Madness or Insanity is to be considered. 

In which a kinsman is slain in madness, 
lover so slain, 

wife, son, daughter, etc., so slain. 

In which person hated is so slain, 

In which person not hated,—maybe a stranger,— 
is so slain, 

In which disgrace is brought upon one’s self 
through madness. 

In which one loses loved ones same cause, 

Madness promoted or brought on for fear of 
hereditary insanity, ordinary fear, etc. 

In which loss of love or loved one produces 
insanity. 

21. In which Mistaken Jealousy is to be considered. 

In which mistake originates with jealous husband 
with jealous wife, 
jealous sweetheart, 
jealous friend, 
jealous relative. 

In which mistaken jealousy aroused by fatal chance 

In which jealousy is platonic or apathetic 

In which jealousy is aroused by malicious rumors 


11 


In which jealousy is suggested by traitor moved 
by jealousy or desire for revenge, 
suggested by hatred, 
by self interest, 
by ambition for kinsman, 

In which reciprocal jealousy is suggested to 
man and wife, 
sweethearts, 
kinsmen, 

friends, ... by rival of either. 

In which jealousy is suggested to either husband 
or wife, 
sweethearts, 

kinsmen, ... by dismissed rival, 

(a) by scorned suitor, 

(b) by anyone in love with either. 

In which jealousy is suggested to happy lover 

by deceived or betrayed husband or wife, 
mistress or sweetheart. 

22. In which something - is Obtained. 

In which something is obtained 

effort is made to obtain. . . by ruse 
or force, 

by persuasion alone, 

In which eloquence is used upon an arbitrator. 

, ' In which something is^ obtained under false 

pretenses, either intentional or 
unintentional. 


23. In which Obstacles to Love are considered. 

t 

In which a marriage is prevented by inequality 
in rank, 
in fortune. 

In which marriage is prevented by enemies, 
by contingent obstacles. 

In which marriage is forbidden because of 
betrothal to another, 

imaginary marriage of beloved to another 

In which marriage is opposed by relatives 

In which family affection is disturbed by 
parents-in-law, 
kinsmen, 
friends, 

incompatibility of temper of lovers 
married or unmarried. 

In which happiness between two is marred by 
third person loved or loving or both. 

24. In which Pursuit figures. 

In which fugitive from justice is pursued 
for brigandage, 

f for fault of love, 

for statutory offense, 
political offense, 

In which one struggles against a Power, 
against a Deity wronged, 

In which a pseudo madman struggles with 
one j ealous or vengeful. 


In which innocent person is wrongfully pursued, 
by law, 

by vengeful kinsmen, 

by others not lawfully commissioned. 


25. In which there is Revolt. 

In which there is a conspiracy 
chiefly of one person, 
of several persons, 
of one who involves others, 
of many who involve one, 

In which one revolts against oppression 
imaginary, or real, 
spiritual or physical. 

In which one revolts against conditions 
of which he or she has control 
of which he or she has no control. 

26. In which there is Rivalry between Kinsmen. 

In which there is malicious rivalry 
of a brother, 
of several brothers. 

In which there is rivalry between two brothers 
with adultery on part of one, 
with adultery on part of both. 

In which there is rivalry between sisters 
for any cause or believed cause. 

In which there is rivalry between father and son. 

In which there is rivalry of son for father, 
or father for son only. 

In which there is mutual hatred of 
father for son or daughter, 
daughter or son for father, 

grandfather or grandmother for grandson 
or grandaughter, 

father-in-law or mother-in-law for son- 
in-law or daughter-in-law. 

In which infanticide is to be considered. 

27. In which there is Rivalry of Inferior and Superior. 

In which a mortal and an immortal contest, 

In which a magician and an ordinary man contest, 
m which there is rivalry between 

a conqueror and the conquered, 
a king and vassal, 
a suzerin king and vassal kings, 
a king and a noble, 

a powerful or influential man and an upstart, 
a rich man and a poor man 
an honoured man and a suspected man, 
two men almost equals, 

two men, one of whom is guilty of adultery in the past, 
two men loving and one not having right to love, 
two successive husbands or divorcee, 
two men, one prisoner of other, 
two men, one slave of other. 

In which feminine rivalries occur, 

(same as those outlined) 


13 


28. In which there is Remorse. 


In which there is remorse for known crime, 
for unknown crime, 
for parricide, 
for assassination, 

for murder of husband, wife, kinsman, 
for fault of love, 
for adultery. 

In which there is remorse for having failed to 
prevent a death, having power to do so. 

29. In which a Recovery of lost one is realized. 

In which anyone, believed dead, is found to be living. 
In which love lost 

through dishonour, real or supposed, 
through mistake, 

through other causes ... is recovered. 


30. In which there is Supplication. 

In which a fugitive implores help from power against 
enemies, 

In which assistance is implored for pious duty forbidden 
In which an appeal is made for refuge in which to die, 

In which hospitality is besought by shipwrecked, 

In which charity is besought by those cast out by 
family or kinsmen, 

In which a pardon is sought, 
expiation, 
healing, 
deliverance. 

In which surrender or corps or relic is entreated 
In which supplication is made to powerful for dear ones 
In which relative makes supplication to relative in 
behalf of third, 

In which a mother’s lover makes supplication in her 
behalf. 

In which supplication is made by sweetheart for beloved 
of strangers, 
of parents or kinsmen. 


31. In which there is Self Sacrifice for an ideal. 

In which life is sacrificed because of word given 
In which life is sacrificed for one's people, 

In which life is sacrificed for filial piety, 

In which .life is sacrificed for a faith, 
for a cause, 

In which love is sacrificed for good of a State, 

In which love is sacrificed for other good reasons, 

In which well being is sacrificed for reasons believed 
sufficiently strong, — such as duty. 

In which Ideal of honour is sacrificed to Ideal of faith 

32. In which there is Self Sacrifice for Kindred. 

In which life is sacrificed for relative 
In which life is sacrificed for loved one. 


14 


for happiness of same, 
for ambition of parent, 
for love of parent alone, 
for happiness of child, 

In which life is sacrificed for loved one condemned 
by unjust laws, 

In which life is sacrificed for honour of parent 
or loved one, 

In which life is sacrificed for relative of loved one 

33. In which all is Sacrificed for a passion. 

In which mind, health or life is sacrificed for a passion, 

In which vows of purity are broken for passion, 

In which future is ruined for a passion, 

In which mind, health or life is acrificed for a passion. 

In which fortune is sacrificed for a passion, 

In which lives or fortunes or honours of others 
are so sacrificed. 

In which duty or pity are cast away for a passion, 

In which all is sacrificed for erotic vice, 

In which all is sacrificed for any vice. 

34. In which necessity forces the Sacrificing of loved ones. 

In which a daughter or son is sacrificed in the public interests, 
In which son or daughter is sacrificed in the 
fulfillment of vow to a Deity, 

In which loved ones or benefactors are sacrificed for one’s faith, 
In which child, known or unknown to others, is 
sacrificed out of necessity, 

In which one’s father is sacrificed out of necessity, 
one’s husband, mother, wife, etc. 

In which a son-in-law is sacrificed for public good 
In which a dear friend is sacrificed for good of 
others or the State. 

35. In which one Slays a kinsman unrecognized. 

In which one is on the point of slaying a 

daugter, son, parent or relative unrecognized 
In which one commits deed by order of oracle, the 

c slain person being unrecognized as kinsman. 

In which same occurs through political necessity 
through rivalry of love, 
through rivalry for power, 
through hatred, 

through hatred of kinsmen of unrecognized kinsman, 
through professional duty, 

a parent or grandparent or other unrecognized 
blood relative unknowingly slain in 
vengeance or through instigation. 

36. Ill which Vengeance is taken for kindred upon kindred. 

In which a father’s death is avenged upon a mother 
In which a mother is avenged upon a father, 

In which a brother or sister is avenged upon a son or daughter, 
In which a father’s death is avenged upon a husband. 

In which a husband’s death is avenged upon a father. 

In which a son’s death is avenged upon another child. 

In which a relative’s dishonour is avenged upon 
another relative. 

Supplementary Situation offered. 


15 


37. In which a Supreme being or a God intervenes. 

In which a miracle is wrought by God, 

In which the dead are restored to life by God. 

FOLLOWING are two suggested Situations. The first might be 
classified under two Situations given in the list, but to my mind 
deserves a classification of its own. The second is one I do not re¬ 
call having ever seen used upon the screen, or know of as having 
been used in story form. Possibly it has been so used, but not to 
my knowledge. 

1. In which a person has a double personality. 

(as in Jeckel and Hyde) 

2. In which a person, knowingly striving to do wrong, unintention¬ 
ally does right and possibly even receives a reward, unmerited, 
for so doing. 

THE Elements to be considered in the major Situations: 

1. the abductor, the abducted, the guardian. 

2. a deceived husband or wife, mistress betrayed, and betrayer. 

3. an ambitious person, a thing coveted, an adversary. 

4. a criminal or believed criminal and an avenger or persuer. 

5. the lover and the beloved. 

6. a mortal and an immortal. 

7. an unfortunate, a threatener, a rescuer. 

8. a vanquished person or power, a conqueror, a victorious 

messenger. 

9. the one daring, the thing dared for, the opposing factor. 

10. the guilty person, the discoverer of the crime or dishonour. 

11. the seeker of the problem, the interrogator, the thing sought. 

12. the hater, the one hated. 

13. the mistaken one, the guilty one, the victim, the author of 

mistake. 

14. the lover, the one hated, the hater. 

15. the unfortunate, the oppressor, the circumstance. 

16. the imprudent one, the victim, the object lost. 

17. the lover, the beloved. 

18. the slain person, the slayer, the spectator or executioner, the 

circumstance. 

19. two adulterers, the betrayed husband or wife. 

20. circumstance and insane person. 

21. the jealous person, person or thing jealous of, accomplice if 

one necessary, author or cause of jealousy. 

22. opposing parties, thing or person obtained. 

23. the lovers, the obstacle. 

24. the fugitive, the punishment, (the pursuers). 

25. tyrant and conspirator. 

26. the preferred kinsman, the rejected one, the object. 

27. the superior, the inferior, the object. 

28. the culprit, the interrogator, the victim of the sin or crime. 

29. tne seeker, the one found. 

30. persecutor, power supplicated, supplicant. 

31. the person sacrificing, the ideal, the person or thing sacrificed. 

32. the one sacrificing, the one sacrificed for, the thing sacrificed. 
33., the one sacrificing, the one sacrificed for, the thing sacrificed. 

34. the one sacrificing, the one sacrificed for, the necessity for the 

sacrifice. 

35. the slayer, the unrecognized victim. 

36. avenging kinsman, guilty kinsman, relative of both, remem¬ 

brance. 

37. the Supreme being, the miracle wrought; the person restored 

to life. 


16 


EXAMPLE. 


THIS example is not given to show you how to construct a plot,— 
simply as a suggestion for using the list. The situation is simply 
the plot of ground upon which the photoplay edifice is builded. I 
always think of it as the supporting arch when thinking of the photo¬ 
drama,—as upon and about it we construct the story. I do not know 
which similie is best—if either answers. Remember, however, to 
think of it always as one or the other,—and, if you use other situa¬ 
tions, think of them also as smaller arches supported by the main 
arch,—the first situation chosen. 


WE will pick at random a Situation. “In which an Enemy is 
Loved” will answer the purpose. Looking through the stib-divi- 
sions of this situation we decide upon “In which lover is slayer of 
father or blood relative of beloved.” Now stop and consider a 
moment. The lover has slain his sweetheart’s father or blood rela¬ 
tive. Shall we permit this act of his to have been a voluntary or 
involuntary one? Which presents to us the greater dramatic possi¬ 
bilities? Does she know who the slayer is? Do her other kins¬ 
men know? Does the lover know the slain man is her kinsman? Is 
he directly or indirectly responsible for the slaying or death? Was 
the relative slain legally (hanged or shot) or in a duel or ambush? 
Do others know the truth and keep it from the girl (or woman) 
and, possibly, from the lover also? We can even go so far as to 
ask,—is the lover innocent of the deed, but believes himself guilty? 
This leads to various possibilities. Is he really guilty, but the girl 
tries to keep him from knowing of it? This suggests that the lover 
might, for a time, have lost his powers of memory,—due to some 
hurt possibly. 


I AM not going to carry this through all the maze of possibilities. 
You can see now the wide field you have to work in. No doubt 
you see situations I have omitted. In making use of the situation 
we might even combine two or more of the suggestions, giving us 
another situation that, doubtless, possesses greater dramatic possi¬ 
bilities than any one situation alone. To show you what I mean: 
Take “the girl knows the lover is guilty, but he does not know it” 
and combine it with “the kinsmen do not know of the guilt.” Now 
we have made use of two of the “suggestions” we worked out when 
figuring how we could use the situation. If we suppose that the 
man slain was 4 blood relative, dear to the father, and that said 
father also knows of the guilt and threatens to tell the kinsmen,— 
realizing that said kinsmen will exact a terrible vengeance,—we 
have a wonderfully dramatic possibility. You can just imagine the 
girl pleading with the father,—the father stern and angered and 
sorrowing for the beloved relative slain by the lover who knows 
not of his terrible deed. And you can picture the kinsmen search¬ 
ing for the slayer and swearing Vengeance when he is found. 


17 


DO not be satisfied with any situation until you have built it into 
a strong dramatic possibility. The stronger you make it the easier 
it is to work with, and the better chance it has of selling when the 
story is completed. 

A LATER chapter shows you how to make use of more than one 
major or minor situation in the same story. 


MOTIVATION. 

MOTIVATION,—as the word implies,—is the motive or incentive, 
—the incitement, reason or cause for every bit of action taking place 
in your- play or story. Every act performed has a motive or reason 
back of it. And you should be very certain, when dramatic action 
that leads to violent deeds takes place in your story, that there is a 
motive for it,—and that motive or reason or cause must be strong 
enough to warrant the action or deed. 

IF you permit a character to fall ill and die,—there must be a reason 
for getting this character out of the way other than a lack of use 
for him or her. If the death complicates the story that is sufficient 
reason. If it means a confession, we will say, that clears up the 
plot,—that is sufficient. But, if you permit this character to simply 
die,—it shows this character was never important to the story, and 
should never have been used. If the death is “run in” in order to 
show its effect upon some other character,—to change this other’s 
nature or some such thing,—then it is permissible. But be very 
careful, as I before said, that you have a good reason for the death, 
and that the audience be shown that reason. 

LIKEWISE with the characters themselves. If you show a drown¬ 
ing man being rescued,—there must be a purpose in showing the 
scene and the characters themselves must have a purpose back of 
the near-drowning and the rescue. If two men are contending for 
the love of a girl and one, trying to rescue her from some peril falls 
in a river, the other has a strong temptation to permit him to drown. 
Why does he jump in to save his rival? If we permit the favoured 
rival to do the rescue act we cannot permit it simply to make him a 
hero in the eyes of the girl. There must be something stronger than 
that back of the act. And if we permit the unfavoured suitor to 
rescue his rival, there must be a purpose in it,—either to put the 
rescued man in his debt, affect the girl and play upon her romantic 
nature, or for some purpose equally as strong that your character 
himself has. 

NO matter how trivial the deed,—show a reason for it. In the 
chapter devoted to “Suggestions” I have mentioned this matter of 
motive again, and shown how easy it is to overlook this 'most im¬ 
portant and essential element in plot construction. 


18 


BE as careful in deciding upon your motivation as you are in de¬ 
ciding upon your situation. For one is as important as the other. 
Given a weak situation a strong motivation will bolster it up. But, 
given a strong situation a weak motivation will destroy it utterly. 
Study the play you see at your local theaters. Note how the author 
has developed his motivation, leading to the culminating act or cli¬ 
max, You will find, of course, that motivation works along parallel 
with the situation,—“hand in glove” I might say. And you will 
find how closely these two are related to Suspense and also to 
Characterization. Each helps the other. But the careful playwright 
devotes equal attention to each, realizing that he is writing a play 
to sell, and that the scenario editor first, the director and star next 
and the audience lastly are educated to pick flaws. Therefore it be¬ 
hooves you to work carefully, patiently and thoroughly. 

I WOULD like to go into this subject more thoroughly than I have, 
but did I give examples and too detailed suggestions you might 
loose the very point I have aimed to bring out,—that motivation 
must supply the excuse and point to the result of each bit of action. 
Sometimes this motivation is not explained at the time the action 
takes place,—motivation leading to the action, that is,—as oftimes 
a story starts with a scene full of action that might require lengthy 
'explanation later on. What I wish to make certain of is that you 
yourself understand clearly the motivation and then make it clear 
to your audience. 

UNIMPORTANT little details,—things that seem almost inconse¬ 
quential, are often of very great importance. Do not depend upon 
the scenario editor supplying these details of motivation. He is a 
stranger to you and to your methods. The story is only a story to 
him,—nothing else. Your desire, your intentions,—mean nothing 
to anyone but yourself. 

GET the full meaning of motivation. It does not mean simply find¬ 
ing an excuse for violent action,—or for any action, for that matter. 
It is a logical reason for that action. If an actor, interpreting a 
character, finds the author has been negligent in developing that 
character, he can very easily build it up himself,—or the director 
can do so for him. If a scene lacks clearness, the continuety writer 
or director will attend to it properly. But, if your action is in¬ 
sufficient in the first place and your motivation not clear, the scenario 
editor will not waste time with your story. 

IF your story is Western in setting, and you wish to show the 
hardiness of the natures of the natives or pioneers, you bring in 
some scenes that will explain everything clearly. The motivation 
is plain enough here,—you have something to show and show plainly 
and strongly. It must be so done. How to do it? A shooting fray 
with callous spectators and participants,—one man killing another 
upon very slight provocation. Maybe your excuse for the killing is 


19 


very slight in any other setting, but you have a reason for permit¬ 
ting this violent deed with very slight provocation. You must show 
the hardness and badness of the men and the times your story treats 
with. 

IF an automobile is going down the road, in one scene, in a very 
orderly manner, and in the next scene is shown wrecked, the 
audience would wonder what had happened between scenes. But, 
did you show the automobile racking from side to side of the road, 
wild men and wild women in it—or even one “uncertain” character 
as a passenger—and the next scene showed the auto in a ditch, the 
audience would understand what caused the wreck, you would, of 
course, explain in detail what led to that wreck, in your scenario 
and in so doing would explain your motivation. But, did you omit 
that explanation or take it for granted that to jump from the first 
scene to the second would be alright and need no explanation, you 
would do so only because you had already prepared the way for the 
wreck and supplied motivation beforehand. 


SUSPENSE AND INTEREST. 

ONE of the hardest things for the author,—and after him for the 
director,—to do, is sustain the interest,—to hold the audience in 
breathless suspense or, if no such action takes place as to keep the 
audience on its feet, (figuratively speaking) at least keep them deeply 
interested. A play that drags is a terrible thing to sit and watch. 
On the speaking stage the actors can hold our attention with little 
jokes or wordy dialogues. But the playwright who devotes his at¬ 
tention to the silent drama must work without the aid of “voices” 
to bridge over his weak places. 

YOU should learn how to suspend your action,—how to work from 
a given point to a given point, slowly and surely or, when ap¬ 
proaching a climax, swiftly and strongly without a let up that might 
snap the tension and destroy the effect. The continuety writer 
must know to a nicety how to carry a story along, scene by scene, 
in such manner that the story unfolds smoothly and not jerkily. 
The director,—and after him the “cutter” must know the proper 
length of the scene, and likewise the piecing together of the story 
when the film is completed. 

BUT the person who writes the photoplay,—the author of the 
scenario,—need know nothing of “cutting” or other studio work. 
He or she need know only how to write so that the story itself will 
unfold in proper manner to the scenario editor. For he is the one 
who sits in judgment upon all manuscripts handed in. 

ONE need not show violent scene following violent scene in order to 
retain the interest of the spectators. Oftimes the most intensive 
action is passive. Oftimes the most thrilling scene,—the scene that 
keeps the audience in breathless suspense,—is the one that shows 


20 


a single character, or several characters, making a momentous de¬ 
cision. If a man, holding some high executive position, was de¬ 
bating with himself as to whether to sign the death warrant of an¬ 
other man,—and we knew this other man was the executive’s 
daughter’s son, and HIS grandson—but HE himself was not aware 
of this fact,—wouldn’t the debate that man held with himself hold 
us spellbound? Wouldn’t we hope for the right decision and dread 
the wrong decision—the decision that would send the lad to the 
headsman and—(we know what that means)—be followed by terrible 
remorse on the part of the grandfather? 

ENDEAVOR to decide upon motivation that lends itself to a 
plot that will permit of suspended action,—suspense. Bringing your 
audience almost to the point where every truth is disclosed,— 
where the plot is made clear to the characters so far kept in the 
dark,—then holding back the disclosures in some manner,—that is 
what is termed “retarding the climax” and is the highest develop¬ 
ment of suspense. But only careful work will warrant the use of 
retarded climaxes, as it requires very delicate handling and if 
clumsily done the audience “guesses” and, having guessed, sets your 
characters down as fools for not having also guessed properly. This 
means you have lost the sympathy of your audience. 

AND right here permit me to mention something I will mention 
again later on—the sympathy of the audience. (Repetition will not 
hurt in this instance). Endeavour always to keep the .sympathy of 
your audience centered in the principal characters,—your leads. 
And at the same time arouse their antagonism toward, or disgust 
for,— the “heavy” or villain. If you permit the hero or heroine— 
or some character closely related to them in the action of the story— 
to do some act that upright persons should never do, you lose 
the sympathy of the audience for that character. Naturally you 
gain their hate for the villain by making him do things upright 
persons would not to. Consequently your hero and heroine must be 
shown as almost super-humans. Do not be afraid of exaggerating a 
bit. ' " 

IN real life it would be perfectly proper for a man, finding a roll of 
greenbacks in an old purse that he knows has been hidden by a 
smuggler (since killed,) to appropriate that money. Although it is 
dishonest money, HE did not commit the dishonest deed himself 
in smuggling in the goods paid for with that money. But in reel 
life you could not permit your hero to keep the riiqiiey,—he should 
return it to the government. Did you permit him to hesitate, then 
decide to send it to a government official, you have made him human, 
but also a most honest, upright man as well. Maybe some of your 
audience will say “the boob,—why didn’t he keep it?” But down 
in their hearts they respect him immensely—you have centered their 
sympathy in him. Later, did you show him suspected for a theft 
even the audience does not know him innocent of, they will give 
him the benefit of the doubt, and actually condemn the fellow who 
suspects this hero’s guilt and doubts his innocence. Their sympathy 
is sure to be with him all the way. 


21 


ONE other point it is well to mention here. Try to avoid keeping 
your audience “in the dark.” Oftimes this rests with the director 
and continuety writer, but it is well to know of it and avoid doing 
so in your story. By that I mean this: Permit the characters to 
remain in ignorance of some action,—that is right and proper. But 
your audience wants to know what is going on all the time, and if 
you keep them as ignorant of the identity of some “unknown” as 
the other characters of the play are,—you cannot keep the interest 
of your audience. For instance: Did you show a man alone in a 
room with a safe containing valuables,—then stop your action and 
pick it up later on where the owner of the valuables comes home and 
finds his safe rifled, your audience does not know whether the man 
last seen there robbed the safe, or whether some other person 
robbed it. If your man is actually innocent, you will have a deuce 
of a time proving it to your audience, and you will be forced to win 
their confidence as you go along. That is bad picture business at 
any time,—and especially so for a new writer. 

NATURALLY much of this depends upon the continuety writer 
and the director. But the writer should know of it. Where the 
above is applicable to the manuscript itself is in this: Never open 
a story with a prologue showing some such scene, then jump ahead 
a few days or even hours and start your story with some action 
depicting the trial of a man for robbing the safe. If your story is 
a “Raffles” or other detective story, it is classed in the “Enigma” 
class, and only experienced writers should attempt photoplays 
dealing with the Enigma. The amatuer is almost certain to handle 
his subject matter improperly. 

WHEREAS the picture itself should never be confusing to the 
audience, the story should never be confusing to the scenario editor. 
His interest must be kept,—for upon his decision rests the fate of 
your play. You must strive to retain his sympathy,—to keep him 
in suspense. Lead him along carefully, explaining fully as you go 
along, and when you reach the climax advise him of the fact in plain 
English. For instance: “Indigo Ike is hanging there by one 
hand, the girl’s fate depends upon whether he manages to cut 
the rope sustaining her weight before our hero can come within 
effective range and shoot him from his perch. We are approaching 
our climax. Ike slowly works loose his knife and reaches down; 
the hero struggles, panting and trying to reach a point from which 
he can get in a shot with his revolver. The knife touches the ropes, 
and Ike readjusts his position slightly as he commences sawing at 
the rope. Our hero reaches his objective,—but his nerves are too 
unsteady from the climb to hold the gun steady. Despairingly he 
looks at the girl who seems to be beseeching him to hurry,—to 
shoot and thus save her. And now our hero makes the ‘leap for life.’ 
Realizing he has not time to steady his nerves, and fearing that to 
shoot and miss will only make Ike saw the harder, he judges the 
distance separating him from the villain and, with a prayer to God 
to give him strength, hurls himself from his higher point down, 


22 


down, down—landing safely upon the ledge. But the terrible jar 
of landing has knocked him senseless. Ike, not realizing the hero’s 
condition, believes his life is imperiled, so draws himself back upon 
the ledge. Seeing our hero helpless he decides to slay him. Slowly 
he approaches—etc.” 

I HAVE strung this out purposely to show you how your suspense 
is to be held up,—and how you are to write so as to keep the suspense 
of your “reader” also. Naturally you do not go on like this all the 
way through your story,—to do so would make a book instead of a 
synopsis. But it never hurts to “detain” or retard your approach¬ 
ing climax if you believe it possesses exceptional dramatic possibil¬ 
ities. In the above illustration we have so arranged our scene that 
we have the girl hanging there threatened with death,—and keep 
her there. We also have the hero at the tnercy of the villain,— 
and our audience prays with us that something will prevent said 
villain’s threatening wholesale murder of hero and heroine. 

IE your story deals with a legacy, and a marriage between the hero 
and heroine would clear away all the troubles, delay that marriage 
but permit the two to come close to being married as often as you 
choose. Only be sure each delay,—each interruption,— has a mo¬ 
tive or reason other than your desire to string out the story. Some 
flimsy excuse will not do. It is dramatic worth that counts always 
in your manuscript. The scenario editor will hunt for it,—but it 
is always best to show it up plainly. And dramatic worth is the 
proper combination of situation, motivation and suspense. There 
is much more helpful and valuable information in this book,—but 
the prime essentials to any photoplay are . the three mentioned. 
Know them thoroughly and use them with care and discretion. 
Remember always to develop a situation that will give you great 
dramatic possibilities,—make sure your motivation warrants ALL 
the action,—and sustain your suspense in one of two ways,—either 
by working directly to a climax or bv retarding the climax. 


STRAIGHT LINE AND COUNTERPLOT. 

THERE is much diversified opinion as to just what constitutes a 
straight line story or a counterplot story. When the studio advises 
you a straightline story is desired,—you wonder just what is meant. 
And nothing I can say here will explain just what they DO mean. 
For, as I before said, there seems to be a difference of opinion as re¬ 
gards the straightline story and the counterplot. 

THE accepted definition of the straightline story, as applicable to 
screen plays, is, among the writers at least: A single well defined 
plot, leading from a given point to a given point, and without other 
plots developed along with it that might detract. 


23 


NOW, for that matter, a counterplot story might very well follow 
the above, and still be a counterplot. That is, a story might contain 
some well developed plot,—and several lesser plots—and if these 
lesser plots did not detract from the main plot, it would pass as a 
straight line story. But my advice to you is to accept my defini¬ 
tion for the present. If you write a straightline story, make it a 
single plot story. You may use fake plots or sub-plots (after read¬ 
ing “Blind Alleys”) if you wish, but be sure that no other plot of any 
importance is developed with your main plot. 

IN counterplot, however, you use as many plots as you care to. 
These may be entirely separate from each other to begin with, but 
they must all merge into ONE someplace toward the climax. All 
your different threads must be brought to a single lead. Other¬ 
wise you could not bring in a single climax, but would be forced to 
use several,—and that would mean you had written several different 
stories paralleling instead of several different plots to one story. 

DO not confuse my meaning. You may, when writing a straight- 
line story, work in all the little sub-plots you wish that, in their very 
nature are countterplots. For Instance: Your story has to do with a 
detective who has gone to a country home to discover, if possible, who 
gains access to the homes of the rich as an invited guest simply to 
steal valuable paintings—or for some such reason. Our detective is 
our hero and we permit him to love the daughter of the rich man en¬ 
gaging his services. Now, to show up the plot of the thieves is 
perfectly permissible. Why? Because it has a direct bearing on 
our main plot—which really has to do with the disappearing articles. 
But, to show a “spy plot” or a “smuggling plot” that apparently 
has nothing to do directly with our main plot, and only is connected 
to that main plot by some one character who might belong to the 
gangs of smugglers or spies, would be making a counterplot story. 
Why? Because the smugglers and their doings is really a little 
story in itself,—and the same of the spies 

THEREFORE, we might say that a counterplot story is one made 
up of several independent stories all fusing into one close to our 
climax. In the above illustration we might use the spies,'even, or 
the smugglers—providing we connected them directly and at once 
with the picture stealing, and not detract from our main plot or 
thread of the story by showing or telling the HISTORY of that 
spy gang or smuggling gang, or explaining the reasons for their 
operating, etc. This would be so hard to do that we would find 
we simply must explain about the spies or smugglers,—and right 
away we have left the narrow track. But we could show the thieves 
den with the members of the organization bringing in the stolen 
pictures, and the quarrel between the leader and his best girl,— 
because our story, we will say, hinges somewhat upon this quarrel, 
in that the thieves are betrayed by the girl in a fit of jealous rage. 
So we are using a sub-plot and not a counterplot. 


24 


I WOULD like to define more clearly the difference between 
straight line and counterplot, but the dividing line is so dim that 
it seems almost impossible to point out its exact location. The best 
I can do is to say: If there is a strong movement or thread carried 
through the play that makes all other movements or threads seem 
unimportant to the development of the main movement or thread 
except as they hinge upon it,—then you have a straightline story. 
If there are several movements or threads, each as important to the 
story as any others, then you have a counterplot story. Maybe 
some writers would not agree with me in this, but you will be pretty 
safe in assuming that I am correct until experience makes possible 
to you your own definitions. 

ACTION, NARRATION, DESCRIPTION. 

EVERYTHING in the photoplay is action. In the spoken drama 
weak places may be hidden under dialogues. But the screen is open, 
—even the scenery is shown in the picture. There is nothing at all 
to hide a weakness. This is what makes it so difficult to write for 
the silent drama, and why the play must swing along from be¬ 
ginning to end with no pauses or breaks to set it off balance. 

WE have, as an aid, the spoken titles. You know how the scenes 
are interrupted by explanations thrown on the screen. But the 
present tendency is to get away from the spoken title as much as 
possible. A story that would need no explanation would he a perfect 
photoplay. 

BUT the beginner would do well to forget he has the spoken titles 
to help out. Then he will devote more attention to the task of “get¬ 
ting his story over” with action alone. Spoken titles are usually at¬ 
tended to right in the studios, and your description of your char¬ 
acters is what the continuety writer refers to for his spoken titles. 
Therefore, be sure your characters are thoroughly and carefully 
drawn. 

IN STORY writing a free use of description is permitted. The aver¬ 
age writer mixes up his narrative and descriptive to suit his purpose, 
—and we must wade through a page of description, sometimes, to 
get a single line of narrative or real action. But this is not permit¬ 
ted in photoplay writing. You must say what you have to say in 
the descriptive line in a very few words. Naturally your story must 
be mostly narrative,—and the nearer it comes to being pure narra¬ 
tive the nearer it comes to being pure action. For narrative is some¬ 
thing having movement, while descriptive is generally passive. True, 
a description of a storm is anything but passive,—but if we wished 
to include a storm in our story we would only say, “a terrible storm 
comes up, with high winds and a torrent of rain.” No scenario edi¬ 
tor would wade through a whole page of slush and rain,—he wants 
it all in a thimble where he can form his own picture of that storm. 
And no director would care what your idea of a storm was,—he has 


25 


ideas of his own that beat your all hollow—at least the way he 
thinks. So keep down the descriptive,—describe as little as pos¬ 
sible. Even when working with the characters, be sure and paint 
them as quickly and vividly as possible,—do it just once and trust 
the scenario editor to remember all about it. Naturally your char¬ 
acters take on life and change in form and colour as your story de¬ 
velops,—but the editor can follow you and them without long- 
winded descriptions from 3^our pen. 

ONCE BEFORE I mentioned that oftimes the most dramatic action 
—action of the intensive kind,—is passive. This I wish to impress 
upon you. Remember in the chapter on Suspense, how I mentioned 
that violent scenes were not necessary to hold the interest of the 
audience! The same is applicable here, since the action goes to 
make up the suspense. Passive action has a double meaning in 
photoplay writing. It might mean quiet settings and momentous 
decisions that hold the audience without exertion upon your part,— 
or it might mean action you leave entirely to the actors,—such as 
the following: A monastic setting, dim and candle lighted, with 
small window showing shaft of moonlight or sunlight centering on 
metal cross or crucifix. Girl kneels as though praying. Back of 
her stands hero showing his sympathy and love. Enter the villain 
(or heavy) who shows mock sympathy and also hate for hero, hid¬ 
ing the evil gloating under a veil of piety. Here we permit the char¬ 
acters to interpret our thoughts in action,—in facial expression most¬ 
ly and in attitude. Such scenes are often intense, and yet no real 
action (as many think of action) occurs. 

CONSIDERING that your story is nothing more or less than a de¬ 
tailed synopsis, you can understand the importance of keeping 
everything moving,—of keeping to action and cutting down on the 
descriptive. Narrate everything,—and do it in as few words as you 
can. Get right to the point,—make it all action, action, action. 
Don’t waste time and paper describing pretty scenes or the feelings 
of the characters. No one cares a jot about either. The scenes 
will be supplied and the feelings will be interpreted,—but you try 
and forget all about both.. If a special scene is necessary, describe 
it briefly. Otherwise describe about like this: “John meets her in a 
wide field, and stoops to pick a rose. She notes his poor clothes 
as he notes her rich apparel,” etc. That is all the description needed 
of field, flower and clothes. The scenario editor gets it all in a jiffy 
and sees the whole scene. And, although you have actually des¬ 
cribed, you have told or narrated it rather than described it. In 
other words,—you have narrated your description rather than in¬ 
terrupted the action to tell about the rose, the field, the sky, the 
clothes each wore, etc. All of which would be superfluous. 

A LAST word: Never sacrifice clarity for brevity,—-but never use 
ten words if you can describe the same scene in two. Remember 
Caesar and his, “I came, I saw, I conquered.” That is true photo¬ 
play writing. Caesar lived too soon,—but—. 


20 


IMAGINATION AND CHARACTERIZATION. 

IMAGINATION, ’tis said, can kill or cure. It is certainly one of 
the greatest factors in world progress. But what concerns us is the 
part imagination plays in the writing game. A gift of the Gods, it 
must—like so many other such gifts—be both developed and con¬ 
trolled. A “vivid” imagination over which one has no control is 
more of a curse than a blessing to a writer. It is apt to lead him 
into difficulties from which he finds it impossible to extricate himself. 

ENDEAVOR to train your imagination. If your imagination is very 
active, do not endeavor to check it,—simply guide it and permit it 
to travel as far and as long as it wishes. In fact, encourage it,—but 
always to go in the direction and within the bounds you specify. In 
story writing nearly anything goes,—that is, you may write the most 
wildly imaginative stories,—like those given us by Burroughs of 
Tarzan fame, and Rider Haggard. But in photoplay writing imagi¬ 
nation is used in an entirely different way. Such plays as Tarzan 
—dramatized for the screen from the book—are more of a curiosity 
than anything else in pictures. “The Daughter of the Gods” and 
pictures of a like nature have been expressly written to exploit some 

] such novelty in the picture world as Miss Kellerman. 

\ BUT ordinarily the photoplay writer is compelled to confine him¬ 
self to plays of the “every day” kind,—plays that deal with actual 
happenings of the present or early past,—that is dating back to ’49. 
The majority of plays in demand have to do with the present. It is 
remarkable that so few plays of “ye olden times” are produced, 
especially when one stops to consider that every play of the kind 
so far given the public has proved a good drawing card. As witness 
Caberia, Ben Hur, Cleopatra Quo Vadis, etc. Also such plays as 
The Fall of Troy, Babylon, etc. But the fact remains that, despite 
the welcome change afforded in such plays from the rehash of society 
melodrama and Wild West, very few plays that do not deal with 
modern times are considered at the studios. 

A CONSEQUENTLY we must give said studios what they want if 
we expect to make sales. And, too, we must train our imaginations 
to dwell upon things within the bounds of prosaic commonplace 
rather than in the realms of fancy. We must also learn how to study 
the people about us and how to make use of queer or unusual types 
for story material. Take a poor fisherman,—uncouth and unedu¬ 
cated,—and his youthful daughter who, like her daddy, has had 
neither education nor training. Surround them with wealth and the 
refinement found in social circles. You have material for either a 
comedy, a tragedy or ^ melodrama. Your imagination must see that 
poor fellow, suddenly made wealthy, in his new home. And you 
must follow him and his daughter with merry laughter or with a 
tear in your eye. You must yourself be first fisherman and then 
daughter. You must live right there yourself. Their antics, their 
efforts to live up to their new position,—all must be your antics and 
efforts. They must retain your interest and your sympathy every 


27 


moment. And everything they do and say must be logically what 
would be expected from such persons in such a position. 

WHEN a plot has been developed in a satisfactory manner your 
imagination will already Have pictured certain of the characters that 
are necessary to your story. Get a good mental picture of each of 
them. Note their every expression,—their inner natures. Study 
them as carefully as though they were alive and breathing. Eor re¬ 
member they will be alive upon the screen if your play is accepted. 
And right here is where you permit your imagination to have full 
play. Your purpose is to give your characters new “traits” and your 
mind’s eye must be trained to take in a dozen mental pictures of that 
same character expressing each of these different peculiarities or 
characteristics. A wild man tamed by a gentle woman,—the change 
must be logical and yet think of the opportunity to show a new and 
strange characterization to your audience! A young girl, used to a 
fast life, goes into the country to regain her health. She meets a 
country preacher. Here is a chance for your imagination. Can you 
picture the change that takes place in the girl,—and also the new 
outlook on life the preacher gets?' Can you visualize the “character¬ 
ization” of these two? If not, try hard. For until your characters 
stand there before you,—walk with you, talk with you, eat and sleep 
with you,—you will never write true photoplays that will grip your 
audience. And what chance have you to interest the scenario editor 
if your characters appear even to you to be simply pen-and-ink men 
and women? 

I AM not advising you to put a brake on your imagination and write 
about commonplace subjects. Far from it. If you can write stories 
that are purely imaginative—on the order of Haggard’s stuff, say— 
you would be foolish to hamper your imagination in any way. I am 
simply telling you what plays find the readiest market, and advising 
you how best to make use of your imagination if you possess one. 
If you are one of those unfortunates who cannot think up anything 
new,— W ell, I might better say you were “fortunate” these days than 
unfortunate. For the average photodrama at present is nothing 
more nor less than a rehash of plays that have gone before. Simply 
new situations, new dresses, new faces and a new name. Otherwise 
you have seen the plays now advertised time after time at your local 
theaters. There is very little that is new in picturedom. Entirely 
new and original that is. But the fault lies mainly with the 
authors, altho—The producer likes a certain type of play, the direc¬ 
tor likes that type also,—actors suitable to that type are engaged,— 
and there you are. A big star is engaged—he or she (or the director) 
insists upon certain kinds of plays. What else can we writers do than 
endeavor to satisfy them? No other kind of story, no matter how 
good, is considered. If you -would make a short sketch of the plays 
you see—in a couple of hundred words—and then endeavor to com¬ 
bine parts of one with parts of another, you would have about as good 
a chance of selling your plays as the “original” writer who can think 
up plays and plots faster than he can write them down. So don’t 
despair. 


28 


IF YOU can train your imagination to overpaint each character, so 
much the better. Exaggerate the good qualities always, and likewise 
the bad qualities. Your hero and heroine must be almost superman, 
—your villain a very devil. In real life heroes are usually ordinary 
appearing and acting men and women,—not so in reel life. In “actual 
every-day” the villain gets by so that he is not always proved a vil¬ 
lain,—but not so in the photoplay. He must be a dyed-in-the-wool, 
—and his good traits and better nature most conspicuous by total 
absence. 

CARE and judgment, however, must always be exercised. Make 
your characters living, breathing men and women somewhat empha¬ 
sized. If you show a pompous fellow, make him very pompous in¬ 
deed. If he is “slippery” and somewhat of a crook, emphasize his 
slipperyness and his crookedness. Leave nothing of this nature to 
the imagination of the scenario editor or your audience. 

LIKEWISE, do not permit a man who dislikes bloodshed, however 
villainous he may be, to kill someone cold-bloodedly, or a timid man 
to fight desperately with some rougher natured man. Should you 
be drawing a miser, make it very apparent that he is miserly, and do 
not permit him to make a gift to someone else. For misers, in pic¬ 
ture life at least, should have no tenderness or show gratitude that 
necessitates giving. Only in the event of your wishing to show the 
change of nature in such a man would you permit him to be other 
than an exaggerated miser. 

ONE of the most common errors in photoplay writing—and in the 
producing of these plays—is to permit some uncouth, uneducated 
girl to possess all the maidenly and ladylike attributes of a girl born 
to more fortunate surroundings, or to give some rough, rugged, self- 
educated chap the instinct and outward manerisms of gallantry and 
breeding he would not be likely to possess in real life. 

BE careful, in drawing your hero, to make him a perfect hero,—he 
must have no bad traits of character, no weaknesses. So with the 
heroine. If she is weak, it must be weakness not her own,— such 
as hereditary. And she must always overcome it and fight against 
it desperately. If she is mean and selfish, it must be the meanness 
and selfishness of environment rather than of nature. 

BE brief in your descriptions of character, and show the scenario 
editor the picture in a very few words. “Harry Crabapple, a 
grouchy, egotistical youth, given to sudden fits of anger at trivial 
things and with no romance in his makeup” shows all any scenario 
editor or director cares to know about the “nature” of Harry Crab- 
apple. If you wish to show a double nature,—some man who would 
not hesitate to take another’s life, yet loves little children, tell all 
about this trait in his character right away, so the editor is prepared 
for something you might spring on him later on. For instance: 
“Hairtrigger Pete comes riding up to the saloon and ties his horse 
to the hitching rail. Morose and sullen, hating all things clean and 


29 


honest, there is yet a queer twist to his nature that at times exasper¬ 
ates his associates. For Pete could not force himself to harm a little 
child. And yet he would, without a qualm of conscience, kill that 
child’s father did said father provoke him.” I might wish to use 
Pete later on in the story to save some child whom kidnappers have 
decided to murder to hide their trail. And I have prepared the 
editor for this scene,—likewise my audience. 

ONE more point. Do not make your characters too complex. The 
simpler they are drawn the better. No one cares to know ALE 
about any character in the story,—simply the chief characteristics 
and peculiarities. Be careful, be simple and be as logical as possible, 
—which does not mean not to give us new characters, or give old 
characters new personalities. 


HELPFUL SUGGESTIONS. 

THE following suggestions cover points the average writer learns 
only from long experience; hints given by professional writers, or 
picked up at the studios; observation, and advice given by those 
on the inside at the studios. 

LOCATION : This matter is very important. Your “exteriors” 
or out-door scenes should be so laid that they may be duplicated 
easily at or near the studio to which the manuscript is submitted,— 
or so arranged that other scenes may be substituted or “faked.” If 
your story brings in a cotton field, an iceberg, a volcano, a burning 
city, a valley flooded, aeroplanes or dirigibles, the scenario editor 
is apt to toss it aside with the comment that there is no place handy 
where such scenes may be photographed. Only in screening some 
dramatized novel or some great spectacular play will the producer 
go to any great extra expense. 

UNCOMMON settings or locations should be avoided as much as 
possible. Volcano eruptions are duplicated by “fakes” without much 
trouble when it is necessary, but wild animal scenes, mammoth 
caves, burning vessels and the like should be left out in favor of 
more common locations such as beach scenes, ordinary mountain 
or desert scenes, winter or summer resorts, etc. Almost any in¬ 
terior setting can be duplicated at any studio, so you do not have to 
be so particular about this. An African jungle can be found in a 
hundred places in California. Snow scenes can be had with little 
trouble and expense. Before long aeroplanes will be very common 
in pictures. 

STUNTS: Avoid “stunts” as much as possible. There are several 
actors and actresses who delight in doing the seeming impossible. 
Leaps from fast traveling automobiles or trains, rides down steep 
hills on a wild horse’s back, drops from fire-escapes to narrow 
ledges, etc., are not uncommon. But these pictures are usually ex¬ 
pressly written for some man like Fairbanks, Bill Russel, Rawlin- 


30 


son, or some woman like Pearl White. Ordinary stunts—such as- 
a Mexican soldier falling from a flagpole, or a wounded robber fall- 
inf from a horse,—are performed by regular “stunt men” employed, 
at the studios. 

SUBJECT : In choosing the subject care must be exercised. Race- 
problem stories are “taboo” at present because of the war and the 
mixture of races engaged. Negro stories should be avoided for 
some time to come,—such as The Clansman. Stories involving 
Jap spies and their activities in this country are “taboo.” The same 
of Russian, English, French, Italian or any other allied nationality. 
If the German gets the worst of it, lay your scene any place and it is 
perfectly allright these days. But this has been overdone of late,, 
so you will profit by letting it alone, or simply bringing it in as a 
side issue in the story,—something of no great importance. 

MORALITY plays, sex-problems plays, murder mysteries, “cos¬ 
tume” plays (such as plays on the order of Revolutionary Days,, 
Civil War Days, etc.,) are not desired by the studios. It takes a 
delicate hand to draw sex problem plays,—and the amatuer usually 
goes at it too roughly. Avoid the “red-light” or “Tenderloin” plays. 
Avoid “suggestive” stories, or stories dealing with the immoral 
and degenerate. Do not write about sordid things, or things that 
make one feel “creepy” or disgusted, or that deals with sickly peo¬ 
ple or death. Keep to the merrier, cleaner and brighter subjects. 
BE careful you do not permit some bad character to outwit the 
police. Wickedness should always be punished, and the law always 
upheld. Avoid the “motion-pictures” in your stories. Do not permit 
your hero to be a “star” or your heroine connected with the pictures. 
In fact, have nothing to do with motion picture settings in your 
plays. The actors get enough of that without acting it. Be careful 
how you handle subjects dealing with Capital vs. Labour. I would' 
advise you to “stay off” this at present. Leave such subjects as 
Insanity and like depressing things alone. If your stories cannot be 
uplifting make them entertaining at least. 

SYMPATHY : I mentioned previously something about keeping 
the sympathy of the audience. Also how to gain it. Be sure, in 
writing, that you appeal to the sympathy of the scenario editor. He’s, 
the fellow you’r after. I do not mean get him to sympathize with 
you and your efforts. That is impossible. But get him to sympa¬ 
thize with the leading characters. For if you are able to get his 
sympathy he will figure the characters will get the sympathy of the 
audience. Sympathy in this instance means a fellow-feeling, liking- 
and respect. If your “leads” are characters the audience cannot 
like, the whole play is disliked. And always remember that your 
audience includes the scenario editor. 

REMEMBER what I said about keeping the audience in the dark. 
Do not hide too much from the audienc,—let “it” in on your secrets- 
if possible. Do not permit the girl and hero to be left alone in some 


31 


compromising position unless you permit the audience to see the 
innocence of their action,—no matter how guilty you may make 
them appear to the other “characters” of the play. 

LOVE INTEREST: Work in your love interest—if you have any 
in the story—just as soon as possible. The sooner the audience 
“gets” that, the better. Get ’em prepared for the sentimental stuff, 
—let ’em see your hero and heroine in action, even if it is a scrap 
instead of a hugging scene. Anything to get the love interest out 
where it may be seen as soon as you ever can. And the scenario 
editor—be “it” either man or woman—is as anxious to know about 
this as the audience would be. 

THERE is no need of my advising you how to handle your love 
interest, for it depends entirely upon the importance of that love 
element in relation to the play itself. Avoid, however, too much 
sentimentality. If your play hinges upon the love interest— as in 
Romeo and Juliet—it will naturally assume a most important place 
in your story. Otherwise avoid keeping it ever before the audience. 
But, as I said before,—the manner in which it should be handled 
depends upon its importance, and no suggestions from me would be 
in order. Good Judgment and commonsense treatment of your 
subject will take care of the love interest properly. 

CHARACTER TREATMENT : Be very sure to state, when 
bringing in the villain, that this man or woman is the villain. The 
scenario editor wishes to know right away which character is which. 
This applies to any character, of course, but the lesser characters 
are usually designated as “heroine’s father’s,” hero’s brother,” etc. 
But always state “lead” when you first mention the leading character 
(whether man or woman) and “support” or “hero” or “heroine” 
when first mentioning the next chief character. The villain is called 
“heavy” in photoplay lingo. 

WITH reference to the story itself, endeavour to make plain to 
the audience right , at the start which part each character plays,— 
hero, support, heavy, etc. Do not permit some villain to walk 
through half of your story before he is shown up as a villain. The 
same of the hero or any other principal character. 

IN dealing with out of the ordinary characters,—characters not 
familiar to the general public except in story or pictures, be care¬ 
ful to draw your characters as close to the popular conception as 
possible without sacrificing a true to life drawing. If you know 
your audience knows no more about some certain character than 
you do,—if, that is, the character is purely a creature of your 
imagination and not partly sketched from real life,—you are 
privileged to handle him or her as you please. 

SPOKEN TITLES: I will class all “titles” under this heading to 
avoid repetition. A “spoken title” is that written description of a 
scene, incident, character or action flashed upon the screen to ex- 


32 


plain or prepare the audience for what is to come later. All titles 
should be classed as “spoken titles” when you write, and written 
either in that way or simply as “titles.” My advice to you, how¬ 
ever, is to avoid titles as much as possible, except as “suggested 
title” or “suggested spoken title.” And use these very rarely, as the 
continuety writer usually supplies all titles. Any motivation not 
supplied by action is usually explained by a title. Since your manu¬ 
script will explain everything to the scenario editor, you do not need 
any title at all. The less you use the better reception your manu¬ 
script will receive. If, however, you have some great little speech 
the hero should make, mention it. If you believe some title would 
be appropriate to some scene, mention it. But do not make a habit 
of throwing in titles. 

NEW TWISTS : Giving the story a new “twist” means to so de¬ 
velop that plot that little surprise are run in here and there, and 
your story has an ending different from that which you apparently 
intend giving it. This is quite a trick, and well worth your effort 
to perfect. Permitting some character to travel through the story 
as a seeming crook, with detectives after him,—then having him 
turn out to be a “Scotland Yard” or “Secret Service” man himself 
disguised for the purpose of exposing as crooks the very persons 
who have been instrumental in hounding him,—you employ a “twist” 
that comes as a surprise. When you get so that you can work into 
the story some little sub-plot or by-plot that actually proves to be, 
later on, the MAIN plot of the story, you have become letter perfect 
in handling the “twist.” You do not need to explain these twists 
to the scenario editor until you have made use of one. Then it is 
good policy to say something like this: “I have made use of a new 
twist here, as you have noticed.” But as regards the audience,— 
this is one time when you simply must keep them more or less in the 
dark, while apparently being very frank with them. 

INCONSIDERABLE MOTIVATION: This is usually supplied 
by the characters. Some trivial act or action by a character might 
supply sufficient motivation for some violent deed later on in the 
story. But, because of its very nature, it is insufficient for you to 
base the plot on. Consequently it is inconsiderable,—seemingly in¬ 
consequential. You make use of a half witted fellow, we will say, 
who is kicked about by everyone as something of no account,— 
and you permit this character to love, in his own fashion, the heroine. 
Now, it might happen that a rejected suitor meets the girl alone upon 
the highway and forces his attentions upon her, going so far as to 
forcibly kiss her. The half wit sees the act and rushes to protect 
the girl, being knocked down for his trouble. Used to such things 
he accepts the blow passively, but, later on, it begins to rankle. The 
more he thinks of it the more his rage deepens. The double insult, 
—to the girl he worships and himself in her presence,—determines 
his mind to revenge. He slays the rejected suitor and the guilt 
fastens upon the hero. Here we have plenty of motivation for the 
deed or act,—the slaying. And yet it is insufficient for plot purposes 
in itself. 


33 


INCONGRUITY, contrarity or contradiction in characterization 
or the story itself is something to avoid. Do not develop some trait 
of character you do not intend using. Do not make the character 
contradictory in itself,—although it is permissible to make it ap¬ 
parently so; that is, you may show a bluff, apparently hard-hearted 
man who is really very tender hearted and generous. But the fact 
must be clearly shown. Much of' this is taken care of at the studio, 
but you do not wish to confuse the scenario editor, and so be care¬ 
ful of this point. 

USE OF THE PRESENT TENSE: Always write as though 
everything was occurring just as you write about it. For instance: 
“Jack Hathway decides to investigate” (instead of decided) “He 
enters the house and prowls about” (not “entered” and “prowled.”) 
This applies whether your story deals with the present day or ye 
olden times. When describing a story: “Alice Brady is a sweet girl, 
generous hearted and likeable. She loves Jack dearly, but he does 
not appreciate her good qualities.” For remember that in pictures 
-everything IS happening, not DID happen. 

RETROSPECTIVE : The retrospective and retroactive in photo¬ 
play writing is something you should avoid as much as possible. 
Do not start a story, then have to go back into the history of some 
character in order to explain the action occurring right then. The 
matter of “cut backs,” “flashes,” etc., is something that does not 
•concern the photoplay writer. The continuety writer attends that. 
But the retrospective—going back—to explain action is to be let 
alone unless absolutely necessary. When you find you must employ 
the retrospective or retroactive, I would advise that you endeavour 
to reanange your story so as to overcome this objectionable feature. 
A prologue sometimes will take care of it. 

COLOR: The relation of color to the Drama. Artists get their 
•effects by proper blending and proper constrast of color. Musicians 
appreciate “color” in music, and strive for color effects. In in¬ 
strumentation the horns (brasses) supply the gold and deeper reds 
and browns; the woodwinds (reed instruments including the oboe, 
picollo, clarinet, etc.) supply the shadings and backgrounds as well 
as “tone colors;” the strings are used as the stenciling and to supply 
the blues and lighter shades. The present day “futurists” in .music 
use their instruments to suit their fancy, but always with a color 
scheme in mind. Now, the dramatist should arrange his colors much 
.as does the musician. He should endeavour to get contrasts,—to 
play one character (or tone) against another. Give a tender natured 
•girl, reared in luxury, a rugged background and she appears more 
helpless and tender than ever. Give a rugged man a “refined” set¬ 
ting, and his ruggedness is more pronounced. Surround either one 
with characters of an opposite type and the effect with which the 
•one stands out from the other is sometimes startling. 


34 


YOU will remember how Shakespear in Hamlet permitted the 
gravediggers (a solemn trade) to indulge in comedy. Why? Sim¬ 
ply as a contrast,—to bring in a lighter shade to contrast to somber¬ 
ness of their occupation and of the rest of the play. Most present 
day dramatists make use of comedy to relieve any near-tragic situ¬ 
ations. To carry a dark-hued play along with nothing to relieve it 
would wear upon the audience. Brighten up the play with one or 
more droll or humorous characters. Something that brings a laugh 
always makes a good impression and centers the attention of the 
spectator or listener more firmly upon what is being shown or said. 

COLOR has one other meaning in photoplay writing,—and that is— 
fitting your characters to the location, or the location to the 
characters. Unless a character is drawn true to life, your drawing 
will be “off color.” Unless the location is in harmony with the 
characters, the whole play will be off color. Unless you know some¬ 
thing about the North woods, do not attempt to write a story dealing' 
with life there. While the studio, naturally, will attend to the set¬ 
tings and see that the surroundings are right and proper, your 
characters themselves may be worked so into the story that they do 
not impress the spectator as real. The play Charles Ray appeared 
in lately, having to do with a northern fur-trading station, was not 
at all realistic in any respect. For some reason or other the char¬ 
acters did not fit into the location, or vice versa. The play lacked 
that touch of realism and gave one the feeling that it was only a. 
play. Possibly the man who wrote about it had never met charac¬ 
ters such as he endeavoured to depict,—and it is entirely likely that 
none of the “cast” had any more knowledge of the matter than the 
writer. But the director should have known if no one else did. 

“BLIND ALLEYS:” A warning and a few suggestions will im¬ 
press you with the importance of .these few lines. Any piece of 
action,—any “side trips” that lead someplace but never return,— 
any character used simply for filling in or padding,—any act on the 
part of the characters that has no direct bearing upon the story,— 
all these are “blind alleys.” That is, they lead the audience to ex¬ 
pect something that never occurs or lead them to expect action that 
does not develop. Did a character in your story see an article in 
a newspaper, show interest, lay the paper aside as someone ap¬ 
proached—and never again in the story was reference made to that 
newspaper article, it would be misleading and therefore a “blind 
alley.” Did you permit some character to take a trip that had no 
bearing upon the story,—did not assist in bringing it to a climax,— 
you would have employed a “blind alley.” Did you show a raid,, 
promoted by some bandits, upon a lonely cabin, simply for the pur¬ 
pose of showing the badness of some certain character in the story,— 
this would be a “blind alley” because it had no real bearing upon the- 
story proper. The audience should never be carried away from the 
main theme of the story. To do so diverts their attention and means 
a hard job bringing them back. The only weak point in De Mille’s. 
presentation of The Squaw Man was when he took his audience from 


35 


the tense and compelling interest surrounding the Squaw Man him¬ 
self away into the jungles of some tropical forest to show the death 
of the real villain of the story. Right there things seemed to snap. 
This might or might not have been the dramatist’s fault. At any 
rate, until you understand how to differentiate a true blind alley 
from a false blind alley—(scenes necessary to the play that appear 
misleading)—I would strongly advise that you avoid them as you 
would poison. Leave it to the continuety writer and the director 
to supply all necessary “extra scenes” while you simply tell your 
story in a simple, straightforward manner. You will profit by 
heeding this advice. By the way—have you ever noticed how Hart 
always “picks” a match! Consider a moment—could, or would, this 
be done "with the old “stink” match used in early days? 

HERE is a suggestion: When you write, carry your story along in 
a sketchy way straight from beginning to climax, forgetting all else 
that the main theme and the principal characters. Afterwards go 
back and add the embellishments,—bring in the little sub-plots (care¬ 
fully developed beforehand) and then criticise the result. If the sub¬ 
plots are too prominent, or some minor character stands out above 
the leads, go over the play and correct this. If your sketch is per¬ 
fectly coherent throughout there is little chance of your spoiling it, 
but if it is rambly and contains false trails,—no amount of rear¬ 
ranging will correct it. That is why I suggest that you sketch, in as 
few words as possible, the main thread of the story first. 

HEART INTEREST : There is no exact definition that will* fit 
this subject, as there are so many forms of heart interest. It is 
dreadfully abused at times, and overworked to death. Use your 
heart interest sparingly,-—and always with judgment. Just a touch, 
at times, will work more effectively and potently than an abundance. 
What is vulgarly called “sob stuff” should be avoided whenever 
possible. Leave this to the intelligence of the director. If he be¬ 
lieves a few weeps will add to a tender or sympathy-begging scene 
he will see that the actress conjures up a few tears from a healthy 
onion peeling. All that concerns you is showing the possibilities 
for “pathos” and heart interest in the characters themselves or the 
situations in which those characters are placed. Following are a 
few examples of the way heart interest is used—but remember that 
anything that touches the hearts of the audience whether action, 
“spoken titles,” “make up,” surroundings,—is heart interest. 

A HUSBAND does not appreciate his wife until he finds he has 
apparently lost her,—then begs for forgiveness and her love. (His 
neglect, first, then his pleading, both work in good heart interest). 
A newsboy, struggling against adverse circumstances, always makes 
an appeal. Children neglected by “social” cranks, or parents fond 
of chasing about. A person, deserving better things, mistreated. 
“The present that came, too late.” Old folks, humble and happy, 
having suddenly become wealthy, leave their small cottage for a 
palatial residence, and find their surroundings anything but con¬ 
genial. “The man who did not return.” Innocence wronged, etc., 
•etc. 

36 "' 


A CLOSE observation of the better plays shown at your local 
theaters will benefit you. Learn to distinguish real heart interest 
from cheap melodramatic stuff. Beban, when he first began working 
for the screen, gave us some wonderful interpretations of Italian 
characters, and his plays were replete with contrasts,—laughter and 
tears mingled. The heart interest was very prominent throughout. 
A raggedy little chap, selling papers on a snow street while his poor 
mother lies waiting the coming of the angel of Death,—always makes 
a strong appeal. I have given only instances as examples, simply 
to show you a few most common ways of working in heart interest. 
Situations 8, 10, 13, 15 and 18, afford wonderful chances to work in 
heart interest. 

PUNCH: Every story, to “get over” must have a punch. The 
idea contained in your story is usually closely related to the “punch.” 
The best way to illustrate this subject is to tell you about a few of 
the “stars” and plays they have appeared in. To my notion, one of 
the greatest exponents of the silent drama is Douglas Fairbanks. 
Not alone because he is a wonderful athlete and gymnast but be¬ 
cause he can “get over” in such an easy, unobjectionable way, real 
lessons that each of us would profit by did we take him and them 
more seriously. 

A VERY wrong impression most people get from a Fairbanks play, 
is that lovable “Doug” thinks only of scampering helter-skelter- 
through a story, and that he believes his presence alone in any 
scene is all sufficient. If you saw him in “Say, Young Fellow” and 
“Manhattan Madness”—not to mention his numerous other plays— 
you like as not remarked upon has athletic prowess and let it go at 
that. So impressive is his athletic prowess, so dominating his virile 
personality, that we are very apt to overlook the real punch in the 
play while grinning with him when he grins and with many “oh’s” 
and “ah’s” watch him perform so easily most difficult acrobatic stunts. 

AND here is one proof of this. From personal talks with the scenario 
editor at the Fairbanks studio, I know that on an average of twenty 
plays are received there each day, and nearly every one is devoted 
to various and new “stunts” for Mr. Fairbanks to “pull.” It is to 
laugh. Give this man the story and he will supply the stunts. 

NOW let me tell you something. Douglas Fairbanks has never yet 
produced a play,—either before he headed his own company or 

since,_that did not contain a big idea,—that did not teach a strong 

lesson—if you cared to see or heed it. Take his “The Lamb,” for 
instance. We saw this silly creature, afraid of his own shadow, 
seemingly,—pampered and petted. We were actually disgusted 
with him. Later we find him thrown upon his own resources, a help¬ 
less girl dependent upon him for protection,—and what happens? 
The Lamb becomes the Lion. There was a caution there against 
forming too hasty judgment of our fellow men. There was a lesson 
there also,—two or three lessons, in fact. And it showed very plain¬ 
ly that, the average young American, although he may be brought 


37 


up in wealth and luxury, has underneath his lamb-like exterior the 
red blood that freed this country from the yoke of oppression, and 
has since aided in freeing the whole world of Militarism and Auto¬ 
cracy. 

TAKE Doug Fairbank’s play “Say, Young Fellow.” Think of the 
lesson contained,—hidden behind a whirlwind of action and a rapid- 
fire of sunny smiles. Here is a youth who has started on the wrong 
track,—who is, nevertheless, lovable and ambitius. He sees a road 
to ease and wealth offered him, and for a moment we wonder if he 
will take it. But no,—he shows very plainly how impossible is 
happiness if founded upon dishonour,—how necessary is a good name 
and honest to advancement and love. Did any of you get that 
lesson? 

AND lastly, study his play “Manhattan Madness.” Here he shows 
that it is not so much the nature of your surroundings, as the asso¬ 
ciations and associates of your surroundings,—the friends you have 
and what those friends mean to you,—whether in a palace or in a 
•dobe house out on the desert. 

MR. FAIRBANKS always gives us a play in which the idea is so 
coated with honey that we are apt to lose track of the punch, as I 
before said, in wondering at his agility and daring. I have mentioned 
his three plays because I know of no others that show my point 
more clearly. And that point is this: You need not have some great 
scenes replete with intense dramatic action or filled with “buckets 
of blood” in order to inject into your photoplay a punch. Sometimes 
that punch is hidden,—it is used so subtly that it is like old wine,— 
oily and enjoyable to the palate. For my part I much prefer comedy 
that is refined to the kind some of the “slap-stick” comedy manu¬ 
facturers turn out. Fairbanks plays are always the kind we can take 
our “best girl” to see, or our mother, sister or wife,—knowing they 
will be clean and hold a laugh that does us good. 

THERE are other stars who give us equally as enjoyable plays.— 
plays as clean and moral as those produced by the Fairbanks Studio. 
And there are other writers as clever as any who write for “Doug.” 
AVm. S. Hart always—or most always—gives us mighty strong 
plays,—and I for one enjoy seeing Mr. Hart upon the screen. He 
•shows a fondness and decided partially for plays that have to do with 
a man whose nature has become (or always was) harsh and dom¬ 
inant, and who is “gentled” and made more lovable by some woman. 
A play that permits of his making the supreme sacrifice out of a 
•sense of duty or obligation is almost certain to receive consideration. 

YOU must always consider the star for whom you write. Now let 
me caution you here against one fault most beginners are apt to 
commit. A writer who is not in personal touch with the studios 
judges the plays acceptable to any certain studio by the pictures pro¬ 
duced by that studio. Possibly he or she sees Fairbanks, or Hart, or 
Hayakawa, or Pauline Fredericks, or that wonderful actress who 


38 


won all our hearts with “The Flame of the Yukon,” Dorothy Dalton, 
or Norma Talmadge, or-that lovable little actress whose name is a 
byword wherever pictures are shown—Mary Pickford—or some 
other of the many popular actor or actresses, in some one 
play. Then he or she does not see that same star again 
for several months, and the next time the vehicle happens to 
be similar to the one in which said star appeared when seen 
before. From that this writer draws the inference that the 
photoplay must be of a similar nature to those other plays he saw 
the star appear in. It is true that Hayakawa delights in plays that 
permit him to make some kind of a sacrifice,—get over a lot of heart 
interest and attract the sympathy of the audience. And it is equally 
true that Hart delights in playing some “bold, bad Westerner” part 
in a sort of melodrama woven about a plot with scenes laid in the 
days of ’49. But all of the really big actors and actresses are am¬ 
bitious to show their versatility, and we find that of late Hart is ap¬ 
pearing in a different sort of play each time. What the studios are 
looking for is New Ideas, — something that is different. Just so that 
you.do not give Hart a play in which the lead is a society man, or 
give Fairbanks a play in which he must play the part of a Puritan 
Father, your play will receive consideration—providing always it 
contains a big idea and a punch. 

CONTINUETY : This is the working script the director uses when 
making the picture. This is the story scene by scene, with couple 
directions to aid and explain to the director and camera man. Un¬ 
less you intend writing continuety for some studio a knowledge of 
this branch of photoplay work is not necessary. If, however, you 
wish to learn how to write continuety I would be pleased to instruct 
you for my regular fee. An inquiry will bring you the desired in¬ 
formation. 

FOOTAGE: This, again, is something you need know little about, 
and yet some text books for photoplay writers devote pages to it. 
The studio determines upon the footage necessary to each picture. 
If you write a play that requires five pages of single spaced type¬ 
writing to tell, and it is all action, you can safely figure that it will 
make up into a five reel picture. The average scenario for a five reel 
picture is from five to ten pages in length. A one reel picture, about 
a page; a two or three reel picture two to three pages. I am speak¬ 
ing now of “detailed Synopsis,” — something mentioned later on. And 
this is all you need know about footage, unless you wish to write 
continuety. 

A FEW HINTS : The scenario editor is the one who first passes 
on your manuscript—the first one of real importance and authority, 
that is. Therefore write so that he will “get you.” The next one 
who reads the manuscript is the director—providing always the 
scenario editor passes favorably on it. Therefore it is best to omit 
any “suggestions for certain scenes” and the like. No one about the 
studio cares much what your ideas are about making the picture. 


39 


All they care about is the idea and punch contained in your story 
Leave it to them to bring it out properly. Don’t suggest things for 
the cameraman,—nor ask if he can do this or that. No matter what 
is needful to a photoplay, after it is accepted the camera man will 
take care of the photography. If “stunt pictures” are necessary, 
he will see they are taken. “Fake stuff” the same, and double and 
triple exposure are “pie” to a good camera man. 

THE production price of pictures is something to bear in mind when 
writing. Unless your play can be produced at a fair average cost, 
it is likely to be returned to you. If you pay close attention to “lo¬ 
cation” you need not fear a rejection because of excessive produc¬ 
tion cost. 

KEEP in mind the “box-office” possibilities of your picture if it is 
of an exceptional character. Plays based upon such subjects as “the 
dress question,” “race suicide,” “Hypocrites,” etc., are good drawing 
cards. It is the advertising possibilities and big box-office receipts 
that induce the producer to make the picture. It is hard to interest 
the regular studios in such plays, however. 

TRY and write simple plays. Do not attempt plays' on the order 
of “Intolerance” “Daughter of the Gods,” “Civilization,” etc. These 
plays are thought up and made right at the studio. Staff writers 
generally attend to the writing of all spectacular plays. 

BEFORE sending a play to a studio, ascertain whether that studio 
employs a “star” your play is suited for. If so, mention that your 
play would be suitable for so-and-so. No use sending a manuscript 
necessitating a male lead to some studio employing well known 
female stars only. If you write for an all-star cast, be sure your 
manuscript is sent to a studio where all-star pictures are made. Do 
not, when writing for a single star, give some other character as 
prominent a place in your story as the lead enjoys. For -stars, like 
most other persons before the public, are jealous of their popularity, 
and will not consider a play which does not give them a dominating 
role. One last suggestion—At present “dream stories” are not de¬ 
sired at the studios—such as “Reaching for the Moon.” 

PLOT CONSTRUCTION. 

CONSTRUCTING a plot requires very careful thought and treat¬ 
ment. It is really a mathematical problem,—not guess work. All 
work should be systematized to get the best results. The same is 
true of photoplay writing as of everything else. 

YOU should definitely decide upon some simple method of arranging 
your story,—balancing it up and marking off the sections much as a 
sculptor “points up” his clay figure when modeling. 

HAVE you ever heard or played the music of Luders,—the man who 
wrote Prince of Pilsen, King Dodo, etc.? Or the work of Puccini? 
If you happen to remember the light operas Luders wrote a few 


years back, you will recall that they are all of them written from one 
“form,”—copied' after one model. That is, there is a certain opening 
or beginning, a certain sentimental song following, then a quartet 
or chorus, then another song, etc. The Bumble-bee song in one cor¬ 
responds to the Sea shell song in another. Even these songs are all 
written from a single pattern. And yet each opera is entirely dif¬ 
ferent from all the others. 

THE same system should be followed in writing stories,—with 
this one difference or exception: Different stories should not be 
written after a single, form,—yet each should follow a set system of 
writing. As an illustration: Take a sheet of paper and draw a line 
through the middle from top to bottom. Now draw one intersecting 
that line as close to the middle as possible. You now have an equal¬ 
ly balanced sheet as regards the four quarters. Next consider your 
Situation. About half way between the center or intersecting point 
of the lines, and the top of the page draw a circle.. This represents 
the Situation. Your aim is to work from the top of the page to the 
circle with motivation that explains the Situation, and from the bot¬ 
tom of the Situation to the bottom of the sheet of paper with the 
main plot of the story. 

NOW, for a moment, forget the situation, motivation and all else 
pertaining to the development of the story itself. Remember only 
that you are writing a story that must sustain interest and be perfect¬ 
ly balanced throughout. The first consideration is the nature of the 
beginning of your story. That must be, in a way, explanatory to the 
story itself or to some leading character in the story. Therefore we 
decide the story should open with a scene that will grip the audience 
right at the start. So we make a little square at the top of the paper, 
on the vertical line. We write “opening scene, strong.” Paralleling 
the vertical line on both sides, we draw two lines from either side of 
the little square to the horizontal line. In the space left between 
these lines and the central vertical line we write “development of 
characters” in one, and “development of plot” in the other. 

THIS brings us to the middle of our story. We have permitted our¬ 
selves just one half of the story for development of the characters 
and initial development of the plot. By now the story should have 
reached a point where the suspense Is. well sustained. We should 
now determine upon another big scene that will grip our audience. 
Therefore we draw another square with the intersecting point of our 
lines as its center. In this we write “big scene.” About half way 
between the horizontal line and the top of the page, paralleling both, 
draw a short line intersecting the vertical line and dividing the cir¬ 
cle. At either end of this line draw a little square. These squares 
represent the opening scenes of oiir sub-plots,-—about the point we 
would begin to work them into our story. Since ‘they have a bearing 
on our situation, we connect them definitely with said situation: 
FROM the squares so drawn, make a straight line to the original pivot 
point of our story,—the center of the page. We now have one half 


41 


of a diamond. In the space so left between the two lines paralleling 
the vertical line and the outer edges of our half-diamond write, in 
each “development of sub-plot,”—and in each square write “sub¬ 
plot.” 

NOW take the horizontal line and, well away from the center, draw 
on either side a square. Connect these two above the horizontal line 
with a low arch forming a segment of a circle. This shows us the 
relationship of these two widely spread scenes to each other. From 
these little squares next draw lines to a small circle drawn close to 
the bottom of the page. This lower circle represents the climax of 
the story. We find that we now have half of a larger diamond below 
the horizontal line. About half way down both “diamond lines” 
below the horizontal, draw a small circle. These circles represent 
big scenes in our sub-plots,—scenes that have a strong bearing on 
our main story and tend to develop it. Just below an imaginary 
line connecting these two circles draw, on the vertical line, a small 
circle or square. From this draw lines connecting it with the two 
small circles on the “diamond lines.” This shows us the connection 
between the big scene (represented by the circle last drawn on the 
vertical) and the scenes represented by said circles. In other words, 
we have hooked up all the scenes that lead us to our climax before 
that climax is reached. We have prepared the way for the climax, 
and have shown very clearly we are approaching a climax where all 
the lines and scenes will merge into one big scene. 

NOW if you will look over the sketch you will find that you have 
provided for an opening scene, two scenes starting the sub-plots just 
following the opening scene, and have developed the plot to a point 
where the real story begins,—the center of the page. That is, you 
have shown how all your characters, in all the scenes—both the main 
plot and sub-plots—meet, we might say, in the center of our story. 
To put it more plainly, we will say that our story has to do with a 
certain village in which live certain people as yet mostly unknown 
to each other, whose lives we intend intertwining to form our story 
proper. Since we cannot open our story without some sort of intro¬ 
duction, we determine to go back aways and show our characters 
separately. This we can not do without a set purpose—some pur¬ 
pose other than simply an introduction of our characters to the 
audience. Consequently we develop a strong scene dated back 
ahead of our story if we choose, or of the same date but a few hours 
previous. 

NOW, suppose this scene does not introduce the main characters 
of our story,—and at the same time these main characters—the two 
leads—cannot be introduced at the same time. As a consequence 
we must prepare a way to bring them in. So we drop down the line 
a short distance and decide to bring in a couple of sub-plots that will 
permit us to introduce our leads and at the same time work into the 
story outside elements that will tend to add interest. (Do not con¬ 
fuse my meaning,—I am not speaking of counter plots but sub-plots. 


42 


And sub-plots here mean simply broken off portions of the main 
plot, so to speak—not separate and independent plots). 

SINCE our story opens in the village, and all or part of our major 
characters live therein, we connect the three scenes directly with the 
village, showing how we have brought all of our characters and line- 
plots to a common center there. Now we may spread out, if we wish, 
and begin two entirely new sub-plots. These may be in the nature 
of counter-plots, seemingly, and yet must have a direct bearing upon 
the main plot. Hence we may introduce rival newspaper or auto¬ 
mobile concerns, or two mining factors, political factors,—anything 
at all that seems best and of greatest interest. There is nothing for 
us to do now but carry our main plot right straight through to the 
climax, (as our sub-plots develop naturally as we go along) inter¬ 
posing a big scene where the relationship between the sub-plots and 
the main plot is firmly established, and where the relationship of the 
two sub-plots to each other is established. 

THIS is done, as I have suggested, by the two independent scenes, 
—one in each sub-plot and the big scene previous to the climax in 
our main plot,—which follows the scenes in our sub-plots very close¬ 
ly. Our last move is to draw a little square right underneath the 
circle representing the climax and write “ending.” This should be a 
scene between the two leads, preferably, or between one of the leads 
and another main character. It is on such a scene that the camera 
“irises out” in continuety. 

ALL of the above is simply a suggested pattern, to show you how to 
balance the scenes and the story—not to be used mechanically. It 
might aid you in systematizing your work. Make patterns to suit 
yourself, but endeavour to form in your mind a set plan for your 
stories, and, when you find one that meets with the approval of the 
scenario editor, follow it closely in your later writings. Do not fear 
that by doing this you will lose originality. Originality means noth¬ 
ing unless you use is properly. And until you do develop a set sys¬ 
tem your work will be very amateurish and disconnected. 

A GOOD plan for writing the scenario itself is as follows: Picture 
to yourself the opening scene as described in story then write on 
paper, in as few words as possible, that very scene—not a long rigma¬ 
role of what happens and what leads up to it, but the scene itself. 
Suppose, for instance, your story is western, your lead Wm. S. Hart, 
and the opening shows a little western Cow town in the early days. 
The town is wicked,—the only law the “six-gun” and the characters 
are virile strong willed, reckless-of-life, careless of morals, men and 
women. You wish to give a good picture of the town,—also show 
Hart riding into it. So you might describe the scene: “Ugly, re¬ 
gardless of pattern or sanitation, its morals and laws conspicuous by 
total absence, spewed out carelessly upon the fringe of civilization, 
the cow-town of Spotted Calf looked like paradise to a weary 
stranger who rides into it one day.” Here we have painted a picture 
sure to satisfy anyone, since we leave the reader to fill in his or her 


43 


own details. We also make an opening for our lead to come in in 
a logical and simple manner. A scenario editor grasps the whole 
scene, pictures the weary traveler on his horse, his delight and the 
ruggedness and raggedness of the setting itself. In parenthesis we 
may then add a few details of scene if we believe such is needful. 

NOW, instead of describing in detail the next scene, we review it in 
mind after reading the scene in our story, something like this: “Our 
lead is an outlaw, wanted for various crimes in different parts of the 
country. He is a dangerous fellow, careless of consequences but 
careful of his safety for freedom’s sake. He exercises great caution 
when entering the town, making sure no officers of the law have pre- 
ceeded him or posted offers of reward for his arrest.” Then we write 
down, very concisely, our scene, showing all this: “Wanted in sev¬ 
eral territories for crimes ranging from manslaughter to stage¬ 
robbing, careless of danger he yet travels under the shadow of the 
law.” This leaves much to the imagination of the reader, and still 
paints our picture of the outlaw as we see him ourselves. 

WE wish now to show our lead entering the dance hall and saloon, 
—to show the lawlessness and immorality plainly and also introduce 
other characters important to the story. Consequently we say 
something like this: “Ranee, the proprietor, boasted that ‘Hell had 
nothing on the Devil’s Roost,’ but it looked like a heaven of refuge 
to (name of lead) when he cautiously opened the doors and entered.” 
Here we introduce the proprietor himself—a leading character, sup¬ 
posedly, in our story; show the lead enter, and expose the lawless¬ 
ness of the place. We also prepare the audience for the scene and 
the scenario editor pictures the whole thing to suit himself. 

AND so we go through the story, picturing each scene in as few 
words as possible, losing no necessary detail and yet making the 
whole thing vivid and simple. This suggested plan is for use only 
in writing the scenario after your story and plot have been developed 
and written out at length. I do not mean this as a plan for writing 
the story itself, although it can be used in that way if you believe 
you can write better. If you follow the suggestion of mapping out a 
plan for your story—a system to follow—then write the story in de¬ 
tail so you understand it thoroughly yourself and finally condense 
and paint it vividly as I have here outlined, you will find before long 
that your writing will improve, your imagination work along a 
charted channel and your stories will seem to have more aim and 
punch than previously. This might be termed “impressionistic” 
writing. 

REVIEW the chapters and helpful suggestions and make sure the 
story is as nearly perfect as you can make it before you prepare the 
scenario for submission. You will often find, when you begin to 
condense the story into a scenario, that many parts that seemed 
to hang together very well in the story do not show up well in the 
abbreviated form. This means more work,—but do it. Don’t say 
“oh, I guess he can get it all right.” Leave nothing to guess work. 


44 


A finely written story with one or two weak parts will be worth no 
more than any ordinary poorly told story. Contrast is one thing 
to pay attention to—to contrast the characters of scenes—but never 
to contrast a poor scene with a good one. That is what makes an 
editor laugh outright. So, if one scene seems weak and shows up 
more plainly because of a very strong scene preceeding or succeed¬ 
ing it, you must build up that weak scene because you do' not wish to 
lessen the strength of the better s'cene. Naturally! 

I WILL endeavour to show you another way in which to build your 
photoplay that can be used with, or independently of, the system 
suggested previously. If you find some other method easier or more 
adaptable to your way of “thinking up” a story, use it by all means. 

THE first move, naturally, is to pick the sub-divisions of the major 
situation that most appeals to you. Having decided upon this the 
numerous ways in which it might be used should be exhausted. If 
you decide upon “In which an Enemy is Loved” for instance, there 
are dozens of “plots” that suggest themselves. Who is loved and 
by whom? What kind of a story is this to be,—society, western, 
sea? Does a woman love a man now, or does she come to love him 
well along in our story? Is this situation our main situation, or will 
it work in better at a later point in our story? Is the one loved a busi¬ 
ness enemy, political enemy, family enemy, personal enemy? Can 
we combine some other sub-division of this situation or some other 
situation with the sub-division chosen to enlarge our field? 

AFTER going carefully into every detail covering the situation 
chosen, we next decide upon our motivation—both for the situation 
itself, the differences or liking of the different characters, the loca¬ 
tion of the story, etc. Everything that should be supplied with a 
motivation must receive it. Why does the woman love her enemy, 
or the man love his enemy? What brought about the enmity to be¬ 
gin with? 

THE next point is—who would such a play suit? Shall the lead be 
a male star or a female star? Keep in mind the star or stars you be¬ 
lieve you would like to see take your character parts. You will write 
more to the point if you do this. 

YOUR situation and motivation decided upon, you will find that 
already little plots have suggested themselves. Decide upon one 
and then, taking your principal characters, carry them through to 
the climax if possible. Should you find it necessary to employ more 
sub-situations,—to get a new “twist” or complicate the plot some¬ 
what, be very careful that you do not bring about a confusion of 
ideas. 

NOW you have the sketch of the story. Does it satisfy you? Does 
it bid fair to develop interest? If so, notice where sub-plots might 
be employed to advantage and work them in carefully. No doubt 
you have formed numerous sub-plots in your mind while sketching 
the story. How about suspense? Does the tension seem to drop- 
any place? If so, correct it. 


45 


NOW you are ready to criticise the play. First of all,—is there 
plenty of action? Do the characters stand out clearly? Is the 
motivation good and strong? Does the motivation warrant the 
action? Does the story appeal to you as one suited the star you 
have picked on? Is the play well balanced throughout—that is, 
does the action run along smoothly throughout or jerkily? Does the 
story permit of a few big scenes where the star may shine brightly? 
Have you “got over” the punch? Does the play teach a lesson or 
point a moral ? Is the whole story clearly told, or somewhat “mussed 
up”? 

HOW about the location? How long is our story? Can we con¬ 
dense it? Now we must search for blind alleys. How about the 
comedy touch and the “local color,” character color and background! 
Let us pick out the big scenes and analyze them alone. Are they 
good and strong? Do they give promise of interesting the scenario 
■editor? 

YOU will, at first, have some difficulty in sketching or constructing 
the skeleton of your plot. More than likely you will go along in a 
rambly, aimless sort of fashion, getting no place. If you find your¬ 
self getting mixed up or running ofif at a tangent, haul yourself back 
and start over again. You will gain nothing by permitting your mind 
to follow the “life history” of some certain character to determine 
how to best use him or her in your story. Forget all about him and 
her except as they come into your story. You must learn how to 
“condense” in thinking. By that I mean,—think in as few words and 
paint mental pictures of certain scenes in as few colors,—as you can. 
If your mind pictures a man rifling a safe while another, hidden 
from the thief’s view, watches,—paint vividly the two men and the 
act of theft only. Never mind the surroundings. When you write 
it say: Blank Blank, hidden, watches blank blank rifle the safe. 
The better able you are to condense your thoughts the more able 
you will become to condense your writing and say what you have to 
say—and say it pointedly—in few words. 

WHEN you stop to consider that a photoplay, as presented to the 
studio, is only a synopsis of the story (detailed, usually) and that 
the editor can spare only a few moments to your play at its first 
reading,—and that he must have that idea and punch come up and 
hit him in the eyes if the play is to receive more than passing atten¬ 
tion—you can see how important it is to say all there is to say as 
■quickly and strongly as possible. If you stretch out the introduction 
into a page, and start what you really have to say on the second 
page,—well, he may never reach that second page. It is usually 
those who “need no knowledge or experience” who send in long 
rambly rigmaroles of nothing that disgust the scenario editors and 
influence them to believe their task is a far from enjoyable one. Can 
you blanie them for not complying with a request to criticize plays 
submitted? Get your play to the editor in a business like way and 
as a professional would, and he will give it its due consideration. 


46 . 


BE brief, but always be thorough and make the synopsis complete. 
If it requires ten pages,—use ten. But if you can show everything 
needful in five pages, cut your play to that length. 

PLOT development really has to do with the plot alone. Possibly 
I should have headed this chapter "Story development” instead. 
But to develop a plot we must have all the "ingredients,” and be¬ 
cause of this I feel that the plot is really the story. Do not follow 
this suggested method of building up your story or plot if some 
other suits you better. Possibly the bare situation itself will suggest 
a whole story to you. If so write it down,—then go over it and 
criticise it from every angle. Or it might be that the "subject” will 
suggest a story. Systematize your work but do not make story 
writing too mechanical. The principal thing is to train vourself to 
weigh and judge the worth of your material both in the rough and 
in its finished state. Ask yourself if such a story as you have in 
mind would interest your associates. If you believe it would, then 
go ahead with it. If you do not believe it would, nine chances to 
ten it would not appeal to a scenario editor. ' Now do not say, "oh,, 
but my associates happen to be the kind who do not appreciate real 
art, and know nothing of the drama.” That may be true,—but 
seven tenths of the population are represented by your associates,-— 
whoever and whatever they may be. The scenario editor takes them 
into his calculations,— why should not you do so? 

REMEMBER you are writing stories to sell,—stories to please and 
entertain (possibly educate or enlighten) the general public. Simply 
because you are deeply interested in some subject or problem does 
not mean that the public in general are also interested. Like as not 
they do not care a hang about it one way or the other. What do they 
care about? Well, they want entertainment. That is what they are 
paying for. And if they must have a few truths driven home, they 
prefer to have them so coated with honey as to make them easily 
swallowed—and easily forgotten if it please them to forget. The 
scenario editor realizes this, and so do the others who have the mak¬ 
ing of the pictures. Hence your story must show the scenario 
editor that YOU understand this,—and leave nothing to his imagi¬ 
nation. 

STORY writing is a peculiar thing, in that we all of us go at it dif¬ 
ferently. The doctor does not prescribe medicine for one in exactly 
the same dosage as he does for another. And neither can one writer 
lay down a thumb and rule system for other writers to follow. 
Having given you the essential I can only trust to your intelligence 
to properly use them. A beginner in music,—studying composition, 
—would never expect to write an opera at his first attempt,—or, for 
that matter, his second or third of even twentieth attempt. Then 
do not expect to write a finished photoplay until you have had some 
experience. You offer your wares for sale,—they are refused,— 
accept the rejection in the same spirit the salesman in the store 
does when he cannot please you with his samples. Try again and’ 


47 


again,—but profit by each attempt. Make up your mind the fault 
lies with you,—not with the man who rejects your story. A mere 
reading of the books on engineering will not make you.an engineer. 
Neither will the reading of text books make you a writer. Proper 
application of the principles and experience alone will do that. 

REMEMBER that a rejection does not mean your story is worth¬ 
less. Good stories sometimes do not happen to contain just what is 
required at that time. Change them about a bit, or save them until 
a later day. If you honestly believe your story is a first rate one, 
and it is rejected, just ask, the next time you send if there is any 
objectionable feature that “kills” it. More than likely you will be in¬ 
formed that such is the cause, and a suggestion made that you revise 
the story to eliminate this. Thank the editor for his advice, make 
the change and return it. By the time this is done your story may 
he a “back number,”—dealing with a subject already having been 
presented by them or another studio. Do not lose heart. The old 
world rolls on and waits for no one. You have at least learned some¬ 
thing, and your next effort will show more careful attention—and 
run a good chance of bringing home the pay check. 

I WILL now explain to you how to prepare the scenario for the 
studio. There are several forms that are correct, so if you know 
some one of the others and prefer it, use it. 

FIRST, about two inches from the top of the first page, write the 
title. Like this: 


The Wolves of Wolverine. 

NEXT designate what sort of a play it is,—melodrama, comedy, 
•comedy melodrama, etc.,— 

The Wolves of Wolverine, 

(melodrama) 

NOW devote a few lines to a general description of the play or the 
moral or the lesson or the situation. Something like this: 

In which an innocent man, wrongfully accused of another’s 
crime, is led to believe his brother guilty, so shields the 
brother by running away. Under an assumed name “out 
west” he again innocently falls victim to another’s wrong¬ 
doing and is saved from joining a band of desperados by a 
woman’s sacrifice, returning home to face his accusers he 
learns of his brother’s innocence and finds his sweetheart 
still true to him. 

(This is not a photoplay, nor even material for one. Simply used as 
an illustration). 

NOW write down the principal characters, following with an 
abreviated list of other characters: 

Characters: 


48 


Jim Duncan 


Alice Birdell 
Etc., etc. 


The lead; Strong willed, trusted em¬ 
ployee who loves brother more than 
honour,—or more than self. 

Jim’s sweetheart, sweet girl in early 
twenties, devoted to Jim. 


Other characters: Fred Palter, a gambler: The president of the 
bank; robbers, civilians, sheriff, etc. 


NOW, if you wish, you may give a short list of the scenes,—or at 
least tell where they are laid, and follow it (if you care to, though it 
is not necessary) with a mention of the interiors. 

Scenes laid principally in and around the little desert town 
of Wolverine. 

THIS completes the first page. About two inches from the top of 
the second page write 


Synopsis. 

THEN go ahead—starting a couple of inches below that, to tell your 
story. Sign your name on the top of the first page, your initials and 
the number of the page on each succeeding page, and your full name 
and address at the bottom of the last page. Use only one side of the 
usual size letter sheet of paper, a typewriter only (most studios 
refuse to consider manuscripts in longhand) single spacing. You 
may indent each paragraph or not as you choose. If you indent, do 
not skip spaces between paragraphs. If you do not indent, skip 
one space. Leave at least an inch and a half margin on the left side 
of the page, and an inch on the right, also leave a half inch at the 
bottom. 

I WOULD also advise that you get “legal backings” at the station¬ 
ery store, cut off about two inches and use as a lawyer uses them to 
protect and bind together his documents. A paper clip of some 
kind—Hotchkiss or any make—will do fine to prevent the pages 
being lost or mixed with other manuscripts. If you use a backing 
for the manuscript, write your name and address'(with typewriter) 
•on the backing where it folds down over the front page,—the name 
will then appear just above the title of the play. If you prefer, you 
•may say “by-—giving your name” just under the title. The principal 
thing is to get your name on the front and back page of the manu¬ 
script if it is not riveted together, and on the fropt page alone if it is 
-•so riveted. 

IF you want the manuscript returned, include return postage. A 
note, pinned to the front of the manuscript, addressed to. the editor 
(or folded loose, if preferred) stating, in a couple of lines, the name 
of the .star your play is suited for and a request to return the manu¬ 
script if not found available, is permissible. 


49 




I SINCERELY hope and trust that you benefit by the reading of 
this book. I have endeavoured to make everything clear to you 
without becoming tiresome. Having learned there are so many 
things important to the success of a photoplay, do not despair of ever 
writing one that will pass the scenario editor. A very little practice 
will enable you to take care of lots of these points automatically. 
And do not give up writing just because your first effort does not 
bring results. A rejection should but sharpen your desire to write 
a salable play. The studios are exacting,—especially from amateur 
writers and beginners. But they are, also, very anxious to aid you 
if your work gives promise of better things to come. 

WHEN a play is returned to you as unavailable, do not condemn or 
criticise the scenario editor, or call down curses upon the studio. 
Rather dig into that scenario and criticise it. You will generally 
find that a rejected play, when it comes winging back to you, does 
not look so wonderful as it did when you first slipped it into an 
envelope and gave it into the care of Uncle Sam’s mails. It is, I 
acknowledge, discouraging when one tries hard to please and still 
one’s efforts go unappreciated. But just stop a moment! Who 
profits by yotir determined desire and intention to write successfully? 
You do! Who succeeds in the long run? The fellow who keeps 
everlastingly at it. And once you’re “in,” you’re made—if you do not 
consider further effort unnecessary. Successful men and women 
work for the good things they enjoy. Make up your mind you will 
become a successful photoplay writer and sooner or later you will 
realize your ambition. Good luck, fellow craftsman. Let me hear 
how you are getting along,—any time. 

THE HUMAN EMOTIONS. 

I AM including a list of the human emotions. I do not know as 
this list will benefit you greatly, but it is a nice thing to have handy, 
as it saves considerable work at times looking through a dictionary— 
if you happen to know what you are looking for. I have included 
it more as an accommodation than anything else. A book of Syno¬ 
nyms should always be handy when you write, as it is good policy to 
use a synonym of a word in preference to a repetition of the same 
word unless you use that word in two separate paragraphs or sen¬ 
tences widely apart. We do not always obey this suggestion,—-or, 
rather follow it. But it is well to try and accustom oneself to using 
several words of the same meaning, rather than depend always upon 
just a single word, and repeat and repeat. As in everything else, 
practice makes nearly perfect—for no one ever becomes actually 
perfect. 

THERE are thirty-seven dramatic situations, and t\vo supplement¬ 
ary situations are given you in this book. I have, therefore, given 
you a list of thirty-seven emotions, with several additional for good 


50 


measure. You will note the similarity of several of these listed emo¬ 
tions, but a moment’s consideration will show you they have an en¬ 
tirely different and distinct meaning when properly applied,—even 
though some are classed, in books of synonyms and dictionaries, as 
synonyms of each other. 


Surprise, 

affection, 

anguish, 

fear, 

remorse. 

moroseness, 

dismay, 

indignation. 

gratefulness 

awe, 

j ealousy 

kindliness. 

love, 

rapture, 

exasperation. 

hate. 

enthusiasm (ardor), 

frenzy, 

joy, 

fretfulness. 

amazement. 

sorrow, 

anxiety. 

seriousness, 

anger, 

compassion, 

cruelty, 

horror. 

bravery (daring). 

delight, 

reverence. 

despair, 

gratification. 

pity, 

disgust, 

penuriousness, 

contempt, 

stupefaction. 

regret. 

passion (vehemence). 

vengefulness, 


shame. 

bashfulness (shyness), 



EACH of this list is descriptive of some human emotion. Many of 
them we do not always consider as emotions,—such as disgust, en¬ 
thusiasm, penuriousness, fretfulness, moroseness and exasperation. 
But to my way of thinking, each of these, even, is a human emotion. 
Anything that is an agitation is an emotion. Anything that throws 
one out of one’s settled calm is actually and really an emotion. I am 
not asking you to accept my definition or my idea as to what consti¬ 
tutes an emotion. Nor for that matter, am I asking you to accept 
this list in its entirety. Use your own judgment, as it is a matter of 
small moment. But familiarize yourself with the list anyway, as it 
might come in handy sometime. 


51 






























